Time flows in a strange way on Sundays.
Time flows in strange ways on Sundays, and sights become mysteriously distorted.
How many Sundays - how many hundreds of Sundays like this - lay ahead of me? “Quiet, peaceful, and lonely,” I said aloud to myself. On Sundays, I didn't wind my spring.
Each day the sun would rise and set, the flag would be raised and lowered. Each Sunday I would have a date with my dead friend’s girl. I had no idea what I was doing or what I was going to do.
Sex is an extremely subtle undertaking, unlike going to the department store on a Sunday to buy a thermos.
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