What is it about time that we feel the need to shape it, beat it down, conquer it? What is it about acts of futility that obsess us, while they also perplex? Time has no stake in itself; it simply passes. I have often looked upon time as a thief, a sneak in the darkness, but time is also the sun, screaming and blazing and burning. I wonder, do I try to trick time, to slow it down, re-route it by slipping so willingly into shadows? I always have a foot in the past, a constant barrage of punishing words for what I could have done, or what I didn’t do right. If I keep my eyes on what was, the future can’t overtake the page, but time crashes through blindness and shows itself in my body and on my face. The future is there, no matter which direction I look, or even if I don’t look at all. Time is in constant motion, morning breaks and breaks again, dusk arrives and then opens its mouth to let out the inevitable night. Time races over the debris, never looks back. Maybe I can become time, become the sun, the screaming, the blazing, the burning, the shadow, the darkness.