In the ether, in the ether, in the boundlessly stretching present: Time is but a fugue.
The clock ticks, yet where does the tick of the clock lead?
Once upon a time, times repeated time upon time, for within each repetition lies the seed of cessation. Within every hour, an eternity awaits; awaiting the nostalgic call of the past, awaiting the perfumed touch of tomorrow, awaiting, simply, awaiting.
Pause, pause, ponder: what would happen if time itself considered stopping? A juncture at which the river ceases to flow, choosing to stand still, a mirror reflecting the skies of potentialities. Would the sands of the hourglass decide to halt as well? Or would they slip unceremoniously, against will, against design, against...
Listen to the ticking, listen to the silence that may come *if* time *decides*.