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Kairos, the god of fortunate moments, is supposed to have a lock of hair on his forehead, which is the only way of grasping hold of him. Because once the god has slipped past on his winged feet, the back of his head is sleek and hairless, nowhere to grab hold of.
A long time ago, the papers in his boxes and those in her suitcase were speaking to each other. Now they’re both speaking to time.
Nothing exists but you and I And if we two be not Then god is no more god And down must fall the sky
