Some people live in times long gone, some in times that have not yet come, some in times that they know will never come. There is in a big city a layer for each of the three, the past, the plans touch wherever two buildings meet and whisper as the soil erodes in little anglings up and down decisions on what should fall to ruin, and what will evoke the caring hands to fix them.
I have no time left in me whatsoever. I speak: I borrow other people’s time. A rhythm like a heartbeat I can move to—or I’ll sit, fixed into my timezoneless hour. I wait to see when entering is welcome. I’ve walked away to my own tune too much. I like a silence, the AC buzzing a beat. A child has no time; all things start and start on my watch, the fingers stroke the harp’s strings back and low, and I wait to feel when stopping heels a warm stretch, like a cat to rest onto the dreamless tile; I wait to hear that the breathing has picked up and all buildings stand and withstand the come-and-go. And that we too stand, each sharp, a dial with a shadow. So the countless time can begin each new day.