You know the Sunday-evening feeling. The week’s done, the house is quiet, nothing urgent needs doing — and into that small clearing settles a low gray weight you’ve never quite found a name for. You manage it. A show, a scroll, something to get you to sleep so tomorrow can start. You call it the Sunday blahs. You call it just tired. You don’t look at it.
What have you been saving for later…
and how much later is left?
