Sleeping-In ‘Til Five-Thirty

Darkness leaves early of late. Light pours in over the horizon like a silent nighttime flood, with no warning, until it is too late to wallow in the absence of light. The only symptom of the flood is the too-late-noticed dissolution of darkness, stolen by time slipping away with big, fragments of nighttime and leaving hazy horizontal holes in the sky near the edge of the earth. By the time I arose from my slumbers early on this day, the peaceful darkness has given way to chaotic morning, awash in the noise of wild birds prodding the universe with their songs.

By the time I was upright, dawdling time had long-since passed. It was time to prepare and wolf down breakfast and, then, to put the finishing touches on my celebration of words and language and their conspiracy to thrust emotion into the spotlight.  I am writing in this stilted fashion with a purpose that would be almost impossible to explain if I were to try, which I will not. At least not for now. Not before I understand what is happening in interstellar space and not until the edge of the Milky Way is clipped by invading Star-Spirits, those critters who sprinkle hope and the illusion of possibilities in their wake.

The clocks here on Earth measure almost 10:30 in this time zone, swath of sky that looks more like a shard than a slab. Time to devise plans for what the past will look like hours hence.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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