My grandfather was a clock who stopped before I met him. I’ve heard he was so kind you could look into his face and know you’d never been late for anything. My mother is still a little girl riding on his shoulders. Time flies and she reaches up to pluck feather pens from its wings so I can write this life down. I try. But it doesn’t stay down. It keeps flying so fast I count my wrinkles the way I used to count sheep. When the number gets high enough, I’m told I’ll fall asleep forever, but: I once watched a woman skip her gravestone across a lake like a smooth pebble. Death hops if you let go
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