I don’t know about time. At the moment it’s doing it’s thing very quickly, you know, the thing where it passes in a fog leaving footprints on your skin. And in my head, at the moment, time is teeming; one day comes into the next without asking and again until all the days of the week are knocking around in the confines of my skull, each like the other, messing up the carpets, kicking things out of place and I can’t remember what belongs where anymore.
It’s like the end of the world, nothing matters, anything could happen, nothing is real, meaning is shifted, glass turns to butter.
And things, events and things, they find their way into this bog of time and stick there, clustering together in my weeks, cluttering up my evenings, covering my days until there’s no space left. They force time into order, the clickety clock of things lining up to be done, alarms, deadlines, telephones, friends, traffic, meetings, dinners, lists of lists and there’s time treading all over me again.