Sunday fleeing, once again. Moon, clear and cold amidst a thin layer of clouds. The evening shows still airing, the neighbourhood screens still flooding homes with pictures and most likely sounds. Silence in the backyards, a single car leaving for the road the bridge the highway. Maybe. At some point, night and actual reality just dissolves in stories and dreams. Sleep tight everyone wherever you are. 

(Hinter den eigenen Fenstern. Dichtes Grau, eine Kerze, der Wind singt und klappert. Kneipenlicht spiegelt sich auf dem Blech parkender Autos. Keine Schritte in der Straße. Das Haus ruht im frühen Sonntagabend.)

Beyond dusk once more. Training ones own ability to tell the current time from listening to the chatter and music and noises of the tired yet still awake neighbourhood, the sound of dishes and late dinners and bottles and the opening, closing of balcony doors, to the street, to the backyards, to the darkness that feels like just floating in with the wind once more, embracing, indifferent, here because it just has to be this way. Sunday evening rituals. Sunday evening mood. The usual flow. Have a soft night wherever you are.

Finally: Back for today. Surrounded by cold air, close to top of the house. Almost overstimulated again with the lights and tones and scents of the city, the barking of dogs, the ringing of doorbells, the joy in voices welcoming late guests. Evening out there under a hazy sky. Pushing the new week to far beyond the horizon of dawn. Trying to settle in oneself before dreams unfold. Sleep tight everyone wherever you are. 

Hours later again. Different ideas of meditation to get at least parts of the self into some sort of equilibrium. Weekend coming to a close, agenda slowly unfolding. Complex dependencies, shared views, conflicting poles. And always a bit of confusion in both. Still, city evening. Spanish guitar, not in the mood for the piano and lacking good approaches to handle oneself. Have a calm night everyone wherever you are. 

Fireworks again. Sound only, lights hidden behind houses. The big small city. Pictures of hours and days lining up, intertwined with the leftovers of conversations and the unresolved pieces kept on the shelf for later, in between the protecting covers of books. Sunday evening mood, a wave of perception making heart beat faster and mind race around itself at increasing speed. No stars so far, no dreams and still waiting for the new dark as a mental bedcloth. Unsure whether sleepy or tired. Have a soft night everyone wherever you are. 

The fading weekend: Contemplating. Swiping through the pictures of the day, drawing routes into a mental map. Window opened wide, even the night unsure whether to remain late summer or early autumn, clouds obscuring stars and veiling the distance spanning across river and park and the roofs. Here again, as a point in time relating to a very certain mood. The neighbourhood still clings to the moment, a glass of wine somewhere, a fire in the backyards, a dinner near an open terrace door and trying to still keep the morning away.  Sleep tight once you're ready for it, wherever you are.