Sunday is grey skies and mellow thoughts. Black clothes and large sweaters
It's the remains of the thunderstorm in the morning. It's dripping leaves and the smell of earth.
It's mushrooms on the corner of the streets and last nights hair and makeup.
It's walking outside, feeling alive, feeling the world.
The leaves in the wind,
the empty playgrounds.
Laying in your bedsheets while the rain taps on your window, the sun is already gone. Sundays are made for notes and packing, books and movies, pizza for breakfast, overthinking, over-everything.