Quiet sunday morning at boyfriends apartment in NYC, by central park.

The substance of Sundays. Sundays have a definite quality to them. They are slightly ephereal, slightly retro, slightly mellow, perhaps even slightly yellow. You sit in an old leather armchair reading a book through out the day, lounge in a coffee shop watching people move by, sit in a bathtub studying the tile, without feeling there is somewhere you should be, something else you should do, or someone you need to talk to. There is nothing you need to change, nothing to worry about, nothing to correct. We have no needs on Sunday, no overwhelming desires, they are harmonious and create harmony within us. They are less about movement, and more about being and existing.

There are billions of people with there hands together, coming together to pray. The simultaneous communication with God exudes a shroud of peacefullness, serenity, and quiet. The late night revelers that stayed up into the twilight ours of the night before, are camatosing in deepsleep. The shops have closed there tired doors, the children are left to sleep, the cats muse at the sudden emptyness on quiet windowsills as time seeps casualy by.

The city that never sleeps, is tamed on Sunday.