the children of time.

Mondays are the faded but rational ones, making schedules and cleaning up. They are the voices of reason, but still give in to Tuesdays who are already overdosing on anarchy. They always ends up alone, their laughter turning to Wednesdays' tears, who have never really stopped crying. They don't say much at all. Thursdays sometimes hum just to break the silence, and can read more from rare smiles than useless words. Those two are in love. Fridays always cling desperately to vices and wait for Saturdays' company to hold each other tightly until their wasted delirium fades. But Sundays... Sundays know they're the end. Still, they close their eyes, and pretend it's all just beginning again. Sundays imagine their own world.