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  • Writer's pictureMark


Time is the wind to the ocean. Sometimes so slow it nary a reflection on the pane. Sometimes whips and chops things into foam. It still all felt so wild day to day, year to year. Never a complacency to any of it, if you took the time for details.

I want to ride on your time. Your glorious, loving time. That most precious thing to which you slave. Amorphous and thrifty and shedding. It tastes like a thousand silver bullets to kiss you, in time. It feels like the movement of the oceans through the lower intestines to hold a moment of your smile. To say something stupid and benign and still be worth it all. Say the glamour of life, of love, is in the changing of the frame. And fill you with everything wrong with me, and you promise the same to me.

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