Sunday, Sunday ©

The story — in my words

I wrote this one while sitting at a greasy spoon in the city, watching the sunlight hit the grime on the windows. There’s a specific kind of quiet panic that sets in on a Sunday afternoon when you know someone is leaving at sunset. I wanted to capture the physical weight of that tiny slip of paper—the bus ticket—that feels heavier than the person holding it. We cut the track with a sparse, driving rhythm to mimic that feeling of a bus idling at the curb, just waiting to pull oxygen out of the room. It’s about that liminal space where you’re still together, but the schedule has already decided you’re gone. The boulevard dreams while the clock just runs out.