It’s Friday and the world is saturated with possibility. As I tread the familiar funeral-march to work and wage, as inevitable as death, gladness lightens my steps and sunshine paints the decaying leaves like confetti.

It’s Friday. The mise en scene fizzes with delight. The week’s weary cynicism is banished forever and cheery simplicity reigns. The laughing crowd of actors cloaked in Sunday-best suites outside the temple feel it too, and in this light all religions are true.

A glorious Friday. The graveyard dances with life. Mammal and bird pay scant regard to the festering bones. This is no time for the dead. With the hubris of youth I scamper between, leapfrog over the stones; smirking at the ugly archaic names, which in this light seem more absurd than usual.