Morrissey shuffles to top of playlist. Everyday Is Like Sunday. Tick, tick, tick. Volume up. The seaside town that they forgot to bomb. Come Armageddon, come.
Sunday late morning, early spring. Old musical gloom rises with the new season's sun smiling on this river straddling Stadt.
Max volume booms on balcony. Elongated words echo, reverberate, shatter Sunday silence. No, Palm Sunday.
Sunday in Central Europe. Quiet day. Not New York. This city sleeps, sometimes.
Volume down. Loud only to private ears.
Everyday Is Like Sunday. Yes, as of late. Easy, uninterrupted mornings. Spring birds call out to each other, to all with ears to hear.Â
Building basks in brightness. Sunday breeze eases gently, indiscriminately. Won't settle on one direction. But soft breeze soothes. Hosanna. Hosanna, but it won't last.
Sunday morning coming down. Szent István's later. Service in Magyarul. Will know but a few words. Will understand it all.
Eye contact, a touch, a Palm Sunday service. Certain things need no explanation. Intuition. We know the answers, the meaning. Why ask? To be polite? To feign interest?
Few mysteries out there if we want to be honest. Inner voice, not one you hear. Somewhere inside all is known. Words would only obfuscate. No need to have a spring morning's meaning described, only felt. Fleeting. Not to waste.
Evening Outside. Bars packed. People sharing greased tea.
Clouds suggest rain but forecast promising. Glimpse future. New season to fully set in. No looking back. Forecast claims, intuition affirms. This week, everyday will be like Palm Sunday.
