Late, late, late... always late. Sunday, sunday, sunday... always sunday. No matter what, no matter how, I find myself once more typing to fight against the end of the weekend. But it's over, in fact it's already monday, and my typing is similar to the movements of the fish that dies in the hands of the fisherman. But no, this is not an accurate metaphor: the night is quiet and I'm fine. Every external sign is fine. Inside, inside, the trouble is inside. Or maybe there's no trouble, and it's just another trick of the mind. Late, late, late... Mind.
There's no peace inside, and yet, the night is quiet like a fish in the sea.