You wake up in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and hours of time. You start to wander, but its cut short. You press on the little round button, and a world lights up within itself. You see the messages, the calls and don’t respond. You already know that Sunday’s just aren’t meant for them. You roll out of bed, and somehow have hours to decide what to wear. You have hours, but you already know what you’re going to wear. You know it’s going to be the rolled-up jeans and messy flannel. You know that because that’s just how Sundays are meant to be. You go shower, but don’t throw on any streaks of eyeliner. You know that no one is going to see. You get in the car, and drive away. You find yourself at the same place at the same time. You order an iced coffee, and nothing else. You read for hours on end. You don’t pause, you don’t skim, you don’t falter. You do all that because you know that that’s how Sundays are.