The little truth in time I had, held in the tips of fingers, has slipped from me, like loose footing on muddy ground wet with perspiration, or down the slippery banks into a wild current of water.
I look at my clocks, they are all different, none of them hold any significance or residue of truth. Do I hold onto what used to make sense or embrace how time has slipped away from me, backwards. I do not know whether I am tired or hungry. I cannot believe something that does not exist and time does not exist here, 36 000 feet in the air, where is is very cold and dark.

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