A Short One About Sunday Nights

The loneliest hour of my week is not late at night. It is around six on a Sunday, when the weekend has spent itself and the week has not started.

For a long time I thought that hour meant something was wrong with my life. I am starting to think it is just the hour where nothing is asked of me, and I have not yet learned what to do with a moment that has no task in it.

I am writing this at 6:14 on a Sunday.