The air flowing in and out of us time after time. You count days. Could count breaths. But the sun's always rising somewhere. Jerky little jumps like a child on stepping stones.
Time comes down a wire now at two hundred and forty volts.
A smooth passage of electrons. The river itself, not jumps across it. Process, not occasion. The clock radio, soon, with a blocked road and a war, will remind me I connect with all the fury and mire. Then, Mel's sighing indrawn breath checked itself and the hoisted duvet stopped.