Time's long, sinewy fingers are locked around my neck. I can see the blood vessels popping out of its hands, criss-cross of thin blue lines dividing into infinity into smaller and thinner branches. Its blood does not flow into mine. It intersects through me, like the piercing of a knife.
Its grip gets tighter and tighter with each passing day, and it will be the one to decide when I can no longer draw my breath. Its cold touch is no comfort, but it reminds me to hurry, to hurry, to make something out of this nothing. And I am a slave to its urgings.
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