Sunday Rhythm
Breakfast. The sound of the porcelain chime against the saucer. Precise. Almost ceremonial. It is rhythm.
No one rushes, not really. Someone folds a newspaper slowly. Thoughtfully. Someone else scrolls absently, then looks up when the coffee arrives. Outside, the city stretches in quiet movement.
You are alone, but not solitary. Surrounded, yet untouched.
molly bloom












