Yeah, well… it did. I knew it might give a crack, but didn’t realise it would fail completely once I go home. But I don’t care, because it was someone else, not me, who started it, and I don’t know that person.
Who are they, these hours? Where do they come from and why do they melt so sweetly, discreetly, relentlessly? I look at the clock, and it seems, I have time, and suddenly I realise time is no more; it has elapsed, melted away minute by minute, no matter how hard I tried to keep it still. My life is a dream, I look how night comes to change the morning, and every day brings something and takes something away, like the tide, and, seemingly, I am the same.
Who are they, these miles? Sometimes it seems that the road is a ribbon which makes up my heart, and when I set off for a journey, it unravels, it hurts. Sometimes it seems that the road is a tightly stretched bow string, or an arrow which I shoot, and I shoot myself through with it. Sometimes it seems that the road is me myself, and the weight of the trains rushing along me, and the weight of the planes landing on me is unbearable.
