I try to never set an alarm on Sunday mornings. The other six days are filled with wailings errupting from my iPhone, precariously plugged in at the foot of my bed. Sundays allow for rest, for the natural slumber of my body, for recovery. There is nothing quite like the stretch of waking up naturally, burrowing your face into the warm pillow, peeking through eyelids and sinking back down into the mattress, unaware of the time, completely at peace. These are my favorite moments of the week; before the anxiety of being productive comes on, before my trip to the grocery store and the guilt of not going to the gym, before I neglect to do everything on my to-do list and lounge around the apartment all day. A quiet moment is hard to come by in a world that can’t stop and breathe without someone running into them.