About the work

The problem with Sundays is that they always happen. No matter what. There’s no opting out, no re-scheduling, not even a minor delay. And then the next one arrives, just as predictably. Some days are heavier than others, their weight pressing down with a specific kind of light, or a hum that you learn to ignore but never truly forget. The patience required to exist within such a rhythm isn’t about waiting for anything to change, but rather about simply being in the next moment, then the next. And even the most perfectly starched fabric, or the most stubbornly polished shoe, can’t quite make that weight disappear.