The days of my week pass as they do for all ordinary people: with turbulent anxiety and heavy toil, like tightrope, walking above the chasms of feelings and emotions.

But on Sundays, my life is different.

On Sundays, I travel upon untamed dreams, mend my hopes, and struggle to set my heart upon new, unstained ground.

Above all, my Sundays are devoted to memory. For hours, I recall faces I loved, faces I came to know, and others I never met in person, yet found through the works of their hands, through the offerings of their souls to the world of mortals. Through these faces, I measure the breadth of my life, the openness of my heart, the worth (if indeed there is an) of my deeds, my whole existence. These faces, purified by distance and by my own growing, deliberate renunciation over the years of judging anything, become a white cocoon, a shroud of purification.

My Sundays are a memorial to true joy, which I possess only a little, so little that I do not entirely lose myself in sorrow, despair, and come to believe that these are the limits and the end of ordinary life.

On the Sundays of my remembrances, I expand and become a welcoming ocean, a vast, tranquil, alluring sea that embraces everything and tenderly promises, whispering softly in the ear, that in the end life will triumph; that everything, at last, will become light and a sacred, speaking silence that reveals all things...