Sunday afternoons, awash in nostalgia. Dusty sunbeams, suspended in that eternity between the long shadows, hang still for an extra heartbeat and then plummet into the hourglass's maw.
There's a brief flash of something approaching panic with the closing of another day. Once it was simply restlessness, the dissatisfaction of the unfulfilled list. Now it's starting to feel like a reckoning of days left.
It's why I have never been able to nap, I suspect. The abrupt shift in timespace, the jetlag of lost hours. There's no harnessing the pendulum's unsettling swing.