
Time blurs in the haze,
spreading viscously
and settling over days
that now seem endless
and almost uneventful.
Every day is a Sunday evening.
This is the idleness
we once called for.
But melancholically we now
dream back past into tomorrows.
Time blurs in the haze,
spreading viscously
and settling over days
that now seem endless
and almost uneventful.
Every day is a Sunday evening.
This is the idleness
we once called for.
But melancholically we now
dream back past into tomorrows.