AtLast_[07]

>> Circles <<

What is time? Just gears clicking or sand passing through impartial holes? No. Time has weight and intensity. With dread, it stalls and rushes - to our disadvantage - as it mocks and dares. It pulls and when we pull back, it drags. Time. Will she be all right? When will I know? It taunts. Eluding, it distracts. Something, somehow familiar... I was a child then? Or, was I ever? What is then? A gap? Or penned pages of tortured perception? The past. An ever growing devouring block of goneness? Somehow that, too, is so detached. Not a singular but a plural binding us all to the same grind. Do we, the collective aware, always agony of unfulfillment, denied promises due? Long over due? Time? Do we rise up over seconds? Mere minutes ? No. But hours? Hours anger and have turned history inside out. Days? Yes, days goad. Weeks? And, months? Ahh! Storm those walls bricked of denial! But years? Years! In hundreds? How long do we spin tethered to that star? Do we resolve or evolve to the going nowhere over vast distances of empty space. What is time, anyway, when promise is false and unmoving? No mere clicks. And spill your sand away into the cement it really is. Eight hundred years of barren centripitality around some heartless flame? Are we to endure - ever dangling - hope always beyond the current moment's grasp? What is our measure of this bleakness second after second, minute to minute, hour by hour, days passing days, weeks upon weeks, months and months and months - again, again, again and ever again in :