On Sundays, I want to give everything up for love. I want it all dyed red. I want the paint to peel, the floorboards to buckle. I want to burn it down.
I want the crown of thorns. I want dresses made of scraps of silk and lace. I want everything whole and torn apart all at once.
How do we get through these Sundays, brightness shining on this clear, sensational imperfection?
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