Where does the time go? Have I lived these seconds, these minutes, these hours, these days? Outside my little islands of awareness I seem to be nowhere, to then from while to while to plug in, look back and see what time has passed by right from underneath my nose. I grow more desperate as I go on. I imagine as a child I was immortal, but somehow that forever has passed, and I become more as the dust from which I came, the ashes that will blow clean from the face of the world. Time I imagine is the mystery between those of death and love, a little more than the former, a little less that the latter: as time may cheat death, so love may cheat time. Like the others, I think I will never understand it.

Maybe it is like I am waiting for something that has already come and gone — like I am waiting for childhood to happen again. And my mind grows numb with the waiting: only for a few seconds at a clip am I aware that time is actually going by, and the rest is that eternal now oblivious of its progression. Yet, I am still hopeful. I whittle away, shaving by shaving, at all that needs to be done in my life. Things, every once in a while, get done. Work is magical: I make a thing to happen, I affect the world in a credible way. Time enough, some moments. And then, too, I can love: deathlessness, timelessness, that which is the substance of the infinite…. But look at the time: I must be late for something, now, no?