All week long I could not remember what day it was. But today the calendar spoke loud and clear. It's Sunday. The day of rest. But there is no rest for my mind. And as I write this down in red ink, ironically the only ink I could find, I can't help but think of a song, and how Sundays aren't a day of rest for many. And I don't mean those who labor for money. I mean those that spin webs. This is the season they come alive- unlike me, who dies every season but is never reborn. "I have died, I will die, it's alright, I don't mind."...You mentioned red color schemes- the shade of blood- and all I could think about was your black schemes and how you're good with a knife. I thought I made my mind up about instinct, but that's easy under candlelight. Then you turned the pseudo-suns on and as you touched all my in-valuables, I wondered how malleable you think I am. Molding me slowly with your contradicting words, taking pictures of the doors and windows to a house that's not a home with a band-aid over your nose, manically mapping out your revenge....You're not the first fair-weather friend and you won't be the last...I saw your eyes. And I saw your head turn at the signal of a word. Figures- everyone in these parts are related. Whispering literal sweet Nothings in my ear. A hell of a lot can change in years. Of course, this could all be in my head. But nothing of sweetness was really said, was it? And you'll know I'll dig deeper...to figure out who is the artist and who is the ambulance. So I hope now your mouth is free of anything clean...Now that you know the ins and outs of me. Look at that, I barely rhymed. Your turn this time.