Sunday at Thirty

It’s Sunday night and Summer has moved past itself and it is Fall and you are thirty and Williams-Sonoma and Pottery Barn were believable for the last ten years and the air snaps in the first coolness, and you are thinking about how you are successful now and everything looks sharp, like the air on this first day of Autumn and it’s Sunday and there are eight hours to feel the luxury of success and a good dinner with someone you hope you love and then off to sleep and Monday comes and that’s completely different:

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