Sundays are best kept to themselves, puttering on their proverbial stove tops, left to their own devices to meander through an afternoon. The secret to getting things done is taking a step back and letting them happen of their own accord. The first cherry blossoms burst in Brooklyn, the first awkward sunburn appeared on my arms, all of the questions are still unanswered, but you got a little reprieve and this time you do not turn it down.
It nearly kills you, every year.
But every year, only nearly.
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