Sunday is the Day When I don’t Make It to the Phone a window in a room is facing the meadow cut diagonally by the shadow of an apartment building. i’m sitting at the table doing the usual stuff – peeling potatoes, cutting them into thin strips and watching the knife becoming totally white with potato starch. first the kitchen and then the room is filled with heavy smell of cooked kale and boiling oil. a smell annoying at first which later i don’t register anymore, just like my thoughts, or actually feelings which are crawling around my mind putting me into a state of some melancholic rapture. when i walk to the window there are women in aprons gathered in a sunlit meadow cutting dandelions with knives from the soil. a black poodle comes running by followed by a child aged four or five.