Grey

It was a maudlin kind of afternoon. I didn't rise 'till midday, groggy and still heavy from the beer. I rubbed a trickle of drool from the side of one cheek, dug the sleep from my eyes. Pulling back the blind, I grunted; the sky was steely grey, a thick, foggy blanket, dead and still. There was no yelling today, the street was empty. There are days that sort of float about, days that just...are. This was one of those days, just another idyll Sunday. I don't try to fight the inertia, I find a good book and get back into bed.