On sunday mornings mole-men do just nothing. They stay rolled-up in blankets too long & only go outside, above ground for just nothing too. They sit & chat just nothings & i-know-what-you-means & sip warm things from mugs & the mornings slip into beautiful nights with stars through trees & more blankets in their holes. Their furry bodies make heat & they make just nothing but lazy, beautiful sounds & slow, beautiful knit things that curl up in their laps purring gentle just nothings that you can barely hear just barely through the contented hums of a whole below-ground dirt-city taking a gigantic, soft-breathing, unplanned nap.