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The weather affects me greatly. On Sunday, I woke up two hours past noon.
I was greeted by the absence of sun, the sky was endless gray above the mismatched roofs
of houses. It rained that day, and it smelled like June. Remember June? Back then, the weather wasn’t as unpredictable. At the start of classes, it always smelled like damp soil, morning dew—
whatever you call it, like wet papers. I found myself looking at the sky intently, like a lover probing a question before shooting an accusatory gape, “what’s wrong with you today?” So I proceeded to make the bed, picked up crumpled papers, brought the wine stained mug to the sink, swept the floor and arranged my thoughts—I need to go to the grocery, prepare food for the whole week, send my clothes to laundry, buy a bottle of shampoo, what am I eating? What’s eating me? These banal things, they’re taxing! They use up all my sanity, when I have little left. 

I brushed my teeth, had small talk with my housemate, “have you eaten lunch?” I asked him. He said he did when he went out to buy groceries. I said I’m about to do the same thing. “It rained today,” he added. I know. We’re having the same Sunday. How boring. When I went to the supermarket, I saw vegetables packed in the similar manner, a tight plastic wrap with square – inch barcodes. It took me half an hour to decide if I should buy some apples. When I got home, it took some time to convince myself to start peeling the cucumbers. It wasn’t laziness, more of unwillingness to do things over and over. The fuck with the mundane. At bed that night, I wished for tomorrow, a blue sky.