AI is selling newspapers and robots have soft palms, remember, there was a time when only brazen heads were whispering into ears of the sleeping –
Time is. Time was. Time is past.
The continuous flow of time exists solely around our hot bodies. From the scent of yesterday, cough of tomorrow and today’s sunburn thighs I am building the anagram of time. Every day I wash off past to meet the morning with a new face, until I shrink so small, until I shrink even smaller and disappear completely. Only a few shiny stones and some saw dust is left. You are wading trough my saw dust, tiny itchy lacerations covering your ankles, you are wondering where does it lead. It doesn’t lead anywhere at all, even the arches lead to nowhere. Nothing but fallacies and falsifications. You can arrange them in pleasing rows and found a museum dedicated to time. Tedious! Temporary! You can scramble the left over parts and build something new.
