Beautiful, sedate moments of incredible nothingness. Moments during which you're distant from the chaos of living, and can revel, guilt free, in your cosy pit and explore the depths of your wonderful, gritty soul. Moments to escape all that has happened, and all that will. Moments for recharging under a vast, new sky: a dawn of opportunity the same as yesterday and the day before, but a dawn realised. Perfectly, peacefully realised.
Moments for nudity. For feeling. For entangled limbs. For kissing. For laughing. For legs akimbo. For slowness. For wrapping soft duvets around tired skin and transforming into a human burrito. For the spilling of crumbs in crumpled bedsheets. Moments for being.
Your Sunday doesn't see the false promise it makes to your Thursday, nor the gravy stain on your red, knitted jumper. Sunday just sees a glimpse of the morning sun through wispy clouds and fills beating hearts with hope. Because hope is there. Always. We know that on Sundays.
A strange, charming expanse of minutes that feel infinite, where you just lay, giddy and dishevelled as fuck, and simply know that you exist. That this is how you feel. This is what you are. And this is what it is. What a lovely ol' thing it is to be alive. Bacon.