when mondays and tuesdays grow cold.

'clarissa crosses eigth street. she loves, helplessly, the dead television set abandoned on the curb alongside a single white patent-leather pump. she loves the vendor's cart piled with broccoli and peaches and mangoes, each labelled with an index card that offers a price amid abundances of punctuation: "$1.49!!" "3 for one dollar!?!" "30 cents ea.!!!!!" ahead, under the arch, an old woman in a dark, neatly tailored dress appears to be singing, stationed precisely between the twin statues of george washington, as warrior and politician, both faces destroyed by the weather. it's the city's crush and heave that moves you; it's intricacy; its endless life.'
(michael cunningham, the hours)

sunday kind of love.