Passing time

Something that I sense very acutely nowadays is the passage of time, the unbearable subterranean creep of the hour or the desperation of seconds flinging themselves off a ticking watch. There's something about being ill that tinges everything with a hint of unreality, like the ripple of noumena hidden beneath the surfaces of objects; things pass in slow motion through the fog of fever, and the structure of each hour melts into the slide of seconds across the glowing tangent of twilight through my window.

When we read it is so difficult to tell what is right and what is wrong, but sometimes when we hit upon words that seem to explain an enduring truth, perhaps time itself slows and stops at the borders of these pages.