She is not here. Or there. She is nowhere. She would rather be asleep in her bed, with the burgundy duvet covering her entire body. She would rather be hugging her feathery white pillows under that duvet, drowsy, yet not asleep. She prefers that sleepy state as opposed to actual sleep because then, she can fully appreciate the sweet approach of sleep. On Sunday mornings, she can embrace this sweet approach of sleep, instead of shunning it and pushing it away. That is why her favorite hour in the entire week is Sunday morning, somewhere between 6.37AM and 7.49AM. During this hour, she can afford to drown in her drowsiness. She can anticipate sleep without worrying that her duvet must be cast aside, that the five-minute shower must be taken, lotion applied on every contour of her body, makeup applied on every acre of her face before she slips into that dress, the blue one with short sleeves, but only if it will match with her blue block heels perfectly, and only if those heels will feel just right. But on Sunday mornings, she doesn’t have to worry about any of this. Oh, during that blessed morning hour on Sunday, her drowsiness can flow on unbridled into the warm arms of sweet sleep. On Sundays when she finally wakes up, she can take that shower, apply that make up, step into those black tights she bought on Moi Avenue last month, wear that grey linen top and.. no, not those blue block heels. They won’t match with this lovely casual attire. Instead, she will step into comfortable, long-lasting, real-leather smiling Swahili sandals. They feel like home.

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