Sunday evening has its own distinct ennui.
In the milieu of our Monday through Friday work world, the weekend is gold. Our payment for and our respite from the grind of producing.
Saturday night is the climax, Sunday morning the comfort after.
By afternoon, we’re feeling the end of the cycle. The twilight of the week. The death of an arbitrary unit of time.
We quietly mourn the end of the good times, and then feel the pause of the void before the new week is born.