I have lost the rituals of time. Night creeps in without curtains. And mini-blinds mediate day-like light. Here, the full moon does not keep me awake, and I learn to sleep in the full glare of fluorescent security.
Time no longer falls into strict division, divided equally by an imaginary line, a belt that slips off an increasingly thinning planet. The distinction between having time and making time. I make time to have time. And this language of production marks my speeded up walking, speeded up talking, quickfire responses, as though the buzzer of life waits to surprise me.
Mid-sentence is too far.
Words travel distances, and shortcuts end in cul-de-sacs.