Sundays. No one to hold me. Hold me til my bones crack White White dust

[applenoire]

Sundays make me feel really weird. I don't know why. Sometimes I think it's because I'm being punished for being somewhat of a Heathen. Maybe if I was really good, then Sundays would be wonderful. I'd go to church with my family dressed in my best pressed fresh white clothing, a ribbon or bow in my hair even; We'd smile and hold hands and under it all there'd be slight austerity. Our house would smell clean, the car would smell clean, we'd fight but no one would hear us. They'd think we were talking about winter in the Alps or summer in Idon'tEvenKnowWhere. Little plastic cups of grape juice and cheddar fish crackers and makebelieving for nothing. Then pillpoppin' Mama makes the roast chicken dinner with gravy and all the fixings. Handslapping, glaring eyes of warning and then grace and good times. Homework done by sundown teeth all brushed and Monday morning's clothes all set out to impress.

I'm lonely. I'm alone on Sunday again.







I'm a thousand miles from my home. My heart is filled with the saddest folk songs. The winter wind is blowin strong.