Monday, Again

And the only thing that meant was a new day. The days may have been longer, but the nights were no less insufferable, no less long. During the night the self from that day  ceased to exist. For six to seven hours I was longer who I thought I would be, no longer what I desired, nothing that I expected. The night was the time of the metamorphosis. The thing I hated, in more ways than one.


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