Maybe it all moves proportionally cancelling out change and the estrangement of judgement. No, an other order pervades. The sun will rise and I won't know what to do with it. Its beak will torture me as will its slow movement, the movement it invented that I can only reiterate. Too much time goes by to take it by surprise.
Bodily sustenance is no longer an excuse.
The quieter and stiller I become the livelier everything else seems to get. The longer I wait the more the little deaths pile up. The overallness of it all soaks through, runs through the holes in my hands and continues to run amok, overturning rocks that should not be overturned, breaking bread that should not be broken. So much remains. No doubt it can all be counted.