Time

Time being colossal, a spin had to be found, two covers, a book we call it a beginning and an end. In time we tick off a digestible portion; calling it our own, walking between the covers hoping never to get lost again, Time being just that; A definition, always as slippery as an heel each eureka, an inflated sense of discovery. But time never allowing itself to be touched, but rather a brief feel, living among each tick of the clock, close enough but still a mystery, and as time becomes another space in time, we are out of words in trying to tell the others, about this other demention, where the sun never sets, where it all revolve's into wonders and signs, a world balancing on a super natural precision, out-pacing thoughts, leaving behind paper and pen. The story about time running around, catching at the wind like children.