Time is stumbling. Through these irregular repetitions it is stumbling. Through all these uneven gentle repetitions it stumbles. Through a wavering wave of dislocations it is stumbling. It comes to us old. It has been lived before. It is softened. These are ribs that have bent apart, irregular, uneven, dislocated, beneath the thin skin. If I were to raise my hand, I think, I could feel them, feel their blood-honed bones, though softened, through the rough skin. But I know it is not so. These shapes and surfaces are made of listenable air. Time is coming to us old, already old. It has been lived before. But the age of it has not been registered before like this. Which makes it also new, not to have been registered before like this.
