From The Book. xxii.0013

time has been seeping out of this fragile broken glass of life at a much quicker pace that usual these last few months. Days seem as hours, months as if days... and so on and on.

a futility in fighting time.

a futility in remembering and embalming the moments of nows that came before.

futility of trying catch the nows yet to come.

absent and tired.

an evening worth several million eons.

~m