April 28, 2002

Fivethirtyish on a Sunday morning, and it's too late for sleep, too early for much of anything else. Mindlessly strumming Velvets songs and whispering some lyrics grabbed from the 'net. "I'm Set Free." "Candy Says." "Heroin." "Femme Fatale." "Sunday Morning."

Partway through "Sunday Morning" (maybe around the "early dawning" line), I make a braincheck of the weekday and time. No sun yet; it's raining, in fact. But if you crane your neck to peek out my sliver of visible window behind the blinds, you might see a haircrack of dawn leaking through. "Sunday Morning" does indeed sound gorgeous right now -- a half-assed confessional mumbled at the end of a long, raucous Saturday night, or at the beginning of a new morning, when some shitcar down in the street wakes you up with its bleating alarm and you're too tired to crawl out on the fire escape and throw your toaster through the guy's window. Here it's just rain on the air conditioner, rain on everyone's air conditioner, rain that actually sounds like sheets (you know, when they talk about "sheets of rain"?), like long, thin slabs of sheet metal being shaken in the wind. Watch out, the world's behind you.