Sunday nights misbehaved like runaway brides.
Cars in traffic, leisurely catching up with each other over carburetor gossip.
People always alienated people.
The seasons never fell in line.
You courted sleep like a lover who would not relent.
Tomorrow's spine was prematurely bent with your to-do lists.
Thus reads the chargesheet of all the accused who stood between you and your dreams.
~hyperbolemuch.blogspot.com (Watch the video here.)