So the writer and the poet say

It gets all right in the end of the story, the writer says
Monday begins grudgingly, resentfully, dread spread like
 poison in your purple veins, green at your wrists, sometimes
 you walk past it like a somnambulist , nodding , obliging them
 with a smile, your eyes light up at moments, dulls and becomes
 heavy lidded when overcome by afternoon sleep, but you don't
 sleep. Tuesday gives you rain, mugs of coffee and blankets
 of love, you hum old tunes into his ear, he smiles back at you
but you despair as the day comes to a close, parting for the night
 leaves you feeling slightly cold. Wednesday rushes past,
you devour written words, news of faraway lands, stare at
 faces of people with brown hair, black , golden, criminals,
 politicians, starlets, you imagine the houses by the sea, the cruel
 mountain tops, quaint houses and  cobbled streets, the Kumbh Mela
 at the banks of the Ganga. Thursday is for old acquaintances,
 reminiscing about childhood idiosyncrasies, a biscuit divided
 among four friends, prank letters written and received, ghost stories
 told. Friday is spent with a book, soaking up the warmth of the winter
 sunlight, nibbling on strawberries with chocolate cream, you are amazed
 at the heightened sense you feel of the world around you,
 overwhelming in their incredulity. Saturday tortures you with deaths
 sometimes, the vast scope of the human life, its various possibilities
 yet so limited sometimes, its heartbreaking misery, you miss
 the embracing magnanimity of home, of Mum braiding your hair when
 you were a little girl, of pushing your sister's tricycle, of going for
evening walks with your brother and your dog.Sunday morning makes
 you restless,waking up late never became you, the not-knowing of
 the rest of the day, but he will come to you or you will go to him,
 nothing is too hard to solve, even imagined grief passes,he imitates
 your scowl, you are laughing again, he is laughing too.
 Even the poet says, it gets alright by the end of the week.