it must be as clear to you (my dear earthworm) as it is to me, that time does not propel itself along one second after another, in perfect step: it is all over the place. each of its nameless possibilities which we call moments are constantly being shaken out and spread as a canopy of eternal presence and attention over the void.
time is capricious and lingering and flighty and ponderously encompassing. it congeals and speeds up: fails entirely to be here one moment and inexplicably returns the next. it has dark currents and iridescent eddies, shy neap tides and feral spring tides. it dreams of running in circles, to wake revolving on the pinprick of the present.
it has us in its paws (its very many paws - for it walks in all directions at once) and we are its helpless cubs clinging to its lurching back, tangled in its rough fur. we hold on, oh how we hold on, telling ourselves that there will always be time for what we want to become; but then - one day (but what is a day?) we simply fall off: into eternity.
consider that.