Time for sale
Time for sale
Time for sale

Left hanging by the thinnest thread. Why does privation linger so pervasively? Phone calls left unanswered; silences left unspoken; promises left unbroken. Time that is kept on supposedly unbreakable pieces is subject to the whims life procures. We discover that clocks and watches do not provide shelter from dark shadows cast down by the hands of destiny; lonesome in the night, awaiting arrivals that it seems may never emerge, and returns which shall not manifest. But that thread stretches far: alone and bereft in Taiwan, isolated and desultory in France—a life becomes lives; junctures become singular, closer than ever metaphysically, though miles away materially. You can feel it. Looking within you find the company you long for is out there longing too, feeling the same way as you. And so you turn the hands back: minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, until clocks no longer keeps themselves and time has no meaning. The dead brought back to life; the lonely find company; the joyless discover contentment.

When I die, ship me out to Paris, where no one will mourn me.
                                                             Synchronicity
                                                             Synchronicity
                                                             Synchronicity