It happens: things just don’t go on. Time does have
a stop. The second hand that ticks forward then hesitates before it
ticks forward again does hesitate. It is as if you have nodded off,
then you wake again, but, however long you were “out,” nothing has
changed. The cat in the window hasn’t twitched. The murmur of the conversation on the
sidewalk
you can hear through the window hums in the same register; it is on the same line, it is in the same measure. The same plane is droning overhead. It is stuck in the sky like a fly in ointment, struggling but not moving.
Then, it lurches forward, the hand, and time, which heals some things but hardly all, resumes.
05.05.22
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