It has a smell of its own, time. Like a familiar room. When it’s no longer your own you crave it, you salivate and you hunger for it, you realize you’d do anything to have it back. Until it is yours again, you steal stolen seconds and gobble up misused minutes, sticking them all together to make a delicate chain of borrowed time, hoping it will stretch. Hoping it will be long enough to reach the next page. If there is a next page.
