if saturday morning is a sun-filled loft, sunday night is a cheesy motel room. the light is poor, but you can still take in all the evidence of your misspent time: suitcases half packed, the toothpaste tube squeezed in the middle, the stale smell of pizza boxes and unfilled promises.
which is to say i didn't build a birdhouse or paint my study, i didn't run and run and run -- i jogged a wee bit, slowly -- and making granola, it turns out, wasn't quite as exciting as i made it sound.
anyway, time's up and i gotta get out of here, or you know what it's like: they start charging you by the hour.
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