Water flowed and he heard it, choosing to abandon his plans he walked off the running path and went down to the source of the sound. He sat down, among discarded plastic and broken bottles, along the banks of a swiftly flowing stream. He ignored the garbage and shifted himself once to get something out from under him, picking up the source of his discomfort, he drew his thumb along the edge of a rusted bottlecap and tossed it behind him.
He sat there long enough for his sweat to cool, his breathing to slow. closing his eyes he recognized the sound must have been the same since the stream had been born, it was only his vision that kept him aware of the garbage, in one sense, the garbage disappeared when he closed his eyes, but the stream remained.
He felt his mind beginning to drift until he concentrated on the sound of the stream, whenever he was successful, there were times when he also vanished, and the stream was all he knew, all he had ever known. Simply all.
Ultimately, he stood up to go, Jack felt if he stayed longer he would never leave, however far away he went. It was difficult to express his feelings in words so he left them uninterpreted.
Sunday was never over, only Monday always arrived.