It is eighty o'clock. They made us stop counting days and already, after only the 80th hour, everyone is clamoring--What happened to the days? Where is the first, the second, the fifteen, the thirtieth? They want them back. I want them back. Without days time is endless and just keeps going on and on stretching out hour by hour never ever stopping never stopping hour by hour and on and on.
It is nine hundred o'clock. We live our lives with the sun and moon. And when there is no moon we make ritual, stay up through the darkness and throw our hands over our heads. And when the moon comes back we stop, and sleep, and start the endless measure of hours again. It is the only way we can tell which side of the earth we are on. We can not wait for the moon to disappear.
It is three-thousand and forty o'clock. We think. We've lost all sense of measurement. Everything is so long. And we sense only wind and rain and common things like the feel of brick or the amazement of a leaf falling. Quick flash of lightning. We notice our breath. We like it like this. No one is complaining anymore.
It's day 12 and already everyone is clamoring to go back to the hours that never ended. They made us go back to counting days again and when we get to 24 hours it starts all over and no one knows what to do except to wait. Start over. And wait. Start over. And wait. The repetition is dizzying. Monotonous.
It is nothing o'clock on noneday. We abandoned measuring time altogether, except to say sun or moon or wind or rain. We married ourselves to the sky and ground and the sliced up chunks of time dissolved like sugar in koolaid. I feel another dimension coming on. It is just around the corner. Folding in and fluctuating out. It wants to introduce itself to all of us but it is shy.
When I walk I can see it flicker and if I am not careful I might step right into
It is nine hundred o'clock. We live our lives with the sun and moon. And when there is no moon we make ritual, stay up through the darkness and throw our hands over our heads. And when the moon comes back we stop, and sleep, and start the endless measure of hours again. It is the only way we can tell which side of the earth we are on. We can not wait for the moon to disappear.
It is three-thousand and forty o'clock. We think. We've lost all sense of measurement. Everything is so long. And we sense only wind and rain and common things like the feel of brick or the amazement of a leaf falling. Quick flash of lightning. We notice our breath. We like it like this. No one is complaining anymore.
It's day 12 and already everyone is clamoring to go back to the hours that never ended. They made us go back to counting days again and when we get to 24 hours it starts all over and no one knows what to do except to wait. Start over. And wait. Start over. And wait. The repetition is dizzying. Monotonous.
It is nothing o'clock on noneday. We abandoned measuring time altogether, except to say sun or moon or wind or rain. We married ourselves to the sky and ground and the sliced up chunks of time dissolved like sugar in koolaid. I feel another dimension coming on. It is just around the corner. Folding in and fluctuating out. It wants to introduce itself to all of us but it is shy.
When I walk I can see it flicker and if I am not careful I might step right into
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