It's Monday morning, and millions of Americans have heeded the jarring ring of an alarm, extricating themselves from their beds, and beginning their travel to travail. For this is the real first day of the week for most. Sunday is merely their last respite, a final meal before walking that green mile to the office chair.
This is the cycle. A life of a thousand little deaths, each scheduled on a recurring calendar for Monday morning. Strapping yourself into that chair and turning on the juice, watching the screen dance with more life than is felt coursing through the veins.