The luminous mid-morning sun shone through the window, chasing away the remnant chill and darkness from the previous evening. A lethargic Saturday morning awaits my come to. I looked at the clock, the hands read 9:54 am, let out a moan and got up to cleanse myself.

A small note pad sat inert on the mahogany writing desk. On it was a listing of numerous chores that needed my attention: 1. bank deposit; 2. a trip to the dry cleaner; 3. automobile mechanical maintenance; 4. grocery shopping. Such are the things I must attend to on any given off-day from work; such is my life, aimless, pointless, phlegmatic.

The calendar reads July 2nd, 2005. A joyous week for those who live in the U.S., a celebration of American independence, but more so because a three day weekend lies ahead for most working people. I am no exception.

For a solitary person living in a solitude, a three-day weekend serves as not a cause for relaxation but 72 hours of mercurial wandering of the physical and ethereal world. It is quite disheartening, come to think of it.

Nikolai Gogol's Dead Souls paperback being my accompaniment, I set out for my weekly commonplace adventure in the midst of the suburban jungle. If only Sun was here, perhaps all of my low spirits would instantly perish into thin air, but reality has it that I am just a broken shard, with no intention to patch myself up.