Sunday Morning means being able to walk in the middle of the road with less chances of dying.
If not for the few people standing on the sidewalk, I might have danced.
I whispered spells to wet pavements and bathed in the warmth of the street lights.
The puddles of water were my mirrors, set to reflect the crying sky.
I conquer the streets while everybody sleeps
Until the sun hangs whole, chasing away the pink dawn lights.