Rain

It's raining in Los Angeles today. The clouds are crying. The sun has marched off into the distance. It feels like fall now. Buy Christmas presents now. The leaves cushion the ground. Light your candles tonight, let a flame flicker in your heart, set off that Gothic feel, see the warm glow pulsating on the wall. Light the fireplace, stab the wood, watch frantic embers rise.

Sunday Is The Greatest Day Of The Week

It's a tough road to Sunday. It all starts with Monday. Is there not a more evil day? It's always overcast on Monday, even when it's sunny. You rise from bed, a dense fog drifting through your mind. Going to work is akin to being sent to prison. You have to leave your joy and sense of humor at the counter, where the prison clerk stuffs your joy and humor in an envelope. You're handed your prison jumpsuit for the day, the bars slam shut -- it's definitely Monday.

Chaos is swarming by Tuesday. By Wednesday, a mushroom cloud of destruction rises within you. But fragments of hope still linger within the fallout by Thursday. By Friday, the miserable debris is swept up, and you find little artifacts of yourself that you forgot existed -- your fun self, your wild side, your happiness. You dust them off and piece them together. On Saturday, a hum of excitement vibrates your heart, building and building, racing through the streets, ripping through stores, galloping up the mountains, where it reaches its crescendo at the mountain peak, triumphantly sounding off in a roar across the massive city, waking sleeping children from magical dreams, rousing the elderly from their naps, and sending birds from their nests.

Then Sunday, it's all quiet. Traffic noise is reduced to a whisper. Fall exhales is chilly breath through your open window. It's sunny and beautiful in your soul and outdoors. All the madness of the week dissolves. You are at peace.