November 7, 2003
Time clicks and clonks and dangles its hands. Time controls and frees and moves in and out of our languid laxness. Time dances and flies and slows down in drowsy care. Time is the movement of schedules, the flexibility of fun, the fretfulness of sleep and the pressure of deadline. When the table is set with the food before your breathe and the wait for a timeless sort disregards your clock, time ticks in angry rhythm. Every second of ever minute of every hour of every day of every month of every year is my precious gift. You have lost.