“I set an alarm for 10 minutes time, and it’s silent because it’s online.
But nevertheless, I can hear it beating, ringing, ticking it’s ticking tock. Faster, Faster, write something better. Write something! Time is quickly dripping out. It will drip and drip until the last grain of sand passes through the nip at the waist of now and then. The womanly figure of yesterday now lay in a heap on the floor only to be turned around again to give up her form for another.
And my son, that’s how babies are born.
Beat against beat, I hear the slapping rhythm of feet. Feet that had travelled the world three times around and again. Perhaps more. No most certainly more. Father time is old and grey. Only grey is what we say to people who haven’t been out in the sun as long as Time. No Father Time has long lived past grey, he has been bleached Colorless.
He hasn’t got any time left, which makes his journey an odd occupation being that Time is the very thing he must transport and give away. What goes on about his head I wonder? And what if he stole a bit of his temptation away?
Perhaps the Easter Bunny would come and lay waste to his soul.
And that my son, is how we die.”
February 22, 2017
(10 minute practice for today: the theme is rhythmic)
Currently reading: Midnight Children by Salman Rushdie and Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J.K. Rowling
Notes: The f*** did I write?