It's a Lazy Sunday

It's a disgusting rainy gray day here in Brooklyn. I feel the need for the comforting words of my favorite writer, Henry David Thoreau.
 
Those sparrows, too, are thoughts I have. They come and go; they flit by quickly on their migrations, uttering only a faint chip, I know not whither or why exactly. One will not rest upon its twig for me to scrutinize it. The whole copse will be alive with my rambling thoughts, bewildering me by their very multitude, but they will be all gone directly without leaving me a feather. My loftiest thought is somewhat like an eagle that suddenly comes into the field of view, suggesting great things and thrilling the beholder, as if it were bound hitherward with a message for me; but it comes no nearer, but circles and soars away, growing dimmer, disappointing me, till it is lost behind a cliff or a cloud.
 
I also feel the need for entertaining and addictive games: so here's an addictive and entertaining game.
 
This Sunday Song