What i love about Sundays is..

the complete, utter lack of the need to do something.. Sunny, quiet skies with the occasional sound of giant metal birds slicing through the air make for a perfect day of being a lazy bum. If only it weren't so damn hot it'd be paradise.

It used to be so easy. It was easy to just tap out the letters, see them form into words--into meaningful sentences.

It seems as if age has its way of putting us in a silent resignation. Like the words on the pages of an old book seem to wither and disappear with each falling grain of time. I still wonder when or where it started to manifest, this difficulty to write what i mean and mean what i write. Did it leave me that night? those nights? is there any way to bring it back again?