a monument, a photograph, a door...

At some point, you stop thinking about time. You stop thinking about what day it is, what month, what year. When you look for time, you discover no one can agree on the second. Distance between then, now, and when is arbitrary. Time becomes a question of "how do I feel?" and "what ever became of...?" You ask questions until every word begins to sound the same, only incoherent syllables remain. You discover that there is no need to speak. Time becomes a line, a crease, the knitted brow of thinking. You try to forget time, carefully smoothing away what never was, what came to be, and what might still come. Time rejects your silent invocations and conjuring. Finally, time becomes a monument, a photograph, a door... but you don't think about time anymore.