Sunday is such a slow day. If you want to do something, you are forced to do nothing.
Drive till it is Monday. The roads filled with few cars. Just speed along looking at the death around you left brown and bare. There is a smell of snow with warm air under the cold breeze. The sound of scurry could be an animal moving the lifeless leaves looking for a green of food or just the wind tricking you. You could be the only life left in this bitter air. Trees have cut off leaves of nutrient and confiscated for themselves. You are cut off from people. You put behind you people and people forget about you.