Things are moving too quickly. Days pass, weeks fly, hours and minutes and seconds tick and tick and disappear until, suddenly, a hazy orange glow begins to fill my apartment. The sun lows, and I know it is time for work. Noon is my eight, three is my one. Clouds, wind, leaves, buds, soil and dust and ash ... I cannot grasp them. I could go outside, lay in the stiff, tall grass and gaze at the sky. It would be nothing other than a fast-forward; a blur of motion and air and darkness and sunshine and flashes. I would blink, then blink again. The sound of thunder would crescendo, then compress. Gone. Gone is the day. Gone is the afternoon.
I cannot make time stand still.