at the end it's sunday. the day of sun. the seventh day. you've accomplished some tasks. realized once more you'll never learn how to be in control of the lists you write down. though you worry and remember it's another day without climbing trees, it's ok. you understand it's not as bad as it seems. ya did the boogie woogie. ya shaked, yeah, ya shaked babe! oh yeah! yeah! oh. you tried not to reflect that much. you know you don't have it figured out, that's ok too. at least you won't be changing your mind. and it's nice to despise any kind of finishing lines. it's sunday. you read something stupid about couples on sundays, guess that the writer may be a very lonesome person to disdain sunday afternoon couples that way. you read the other writer that said us humans where wrong when we invented love, that god was the right one on inventing only sex. o'well, that's quite stupid too. of course love is a strange invention, as strange as it was to invent the divine father. and you ask why on hell should we renounce to love? so sometimes you may hurt a little bit, or a lot, but what's that compared with being alive for a while? and who may swear that love is not forever?, i heard a few stories around about everlasting love. so it's sunday. a well-known day as being boring. what's the big deal? on sundays i like to imagine that i'm not there. it's alright, i'm not losing a day. it's as if i'm just looking and have no part on the seventh day. something like imagining i'm just a cinematographer.

Couple, Smoking Man, Pink Room, from The Last Resort, Martin Parr