Time, as the Enemy created it, is like a road stretching out in front of them. They can only pass over it on the ground, one foot in front of the other. Sometimes their pace feels quick, and sometimes slow, but they can only pass through the moments singly. When they are working hard, or in pain, their pace feels burdensome. They count every inch, every second. When they are on a pleasurable stretch of road, the time practically skips for them. They look up and say something like, “What, ten o’clock already?” And we know, with a cringing feeling of loss, that they have actually experienced
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