(no subject)

Time wants a time when we're all dead and gone.

We see this and see this is right.

We agree that the shining debris should shift unheard like slippings of sand in the night beneath water.

That a time there for that is as right as this time here for this.

But the lapse into that, every item of loss, and we're lawyers: not that part, not now.

Not one blade in my backyard but sure take the yard.

Any day but today.

I think this is big of us.

The time for not us is important.

But so's the time for us.

And since we're the time for us every new breath is our right.

Our sense that we're contingent is contingent on our sense.

And sense is preparation for desire.