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Time passes, but all it does is pour day after day into my world, it goes nowhere, it has no stops or stations, only this endless chain of days.
The dog had lain on his bed because it was the closest it could get to the other dog. I was just in the way, the dog owner said. It tolerated me, he said.
No one can tell that I am training a dress to stay with me.
I took the alto part, as I have done ever since my mother gave up trying to get my voice to reach the heights of the melody and instead taught me to maintain the balance in the middle.
Time doesn’t fly anywhere, it stays still, it is a vessel.
I could go back and tell the whole story again, this time with seasons and Romans. I could say that I haven’t found a way out of the eighteenth of November. That all I have found are containers, one after another. That time is a space, a vessel, and that I have fallen into it.
