time, time itself, as such, for its own sake?” –Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain
Time moves too quickly, and always always independently of you. Where are you? The Magic Mountain has been sitting on my night stand untouched for months. You found an atlas fashioned with glue and four letter words and you were gone. I know this is too late, or six months too soon, but my bird heart pulse was always faster than your wristwatch. It’s not what I know now anyway. That moment passed. There was a taxi cab, there were my lungs. Then there was nothing. I packed up my secrets in little glass bottles, I covered myself in band-aids and plaster of Paris, and cut letters from the dictionary. This momentous past. My bird heart is no larger than a postage stamp. The hospital patients have all been released. Your wristwatch is gone. I plot all the ways to kill time: with a sharp knife, with poison, with a mixtape of love songs from your single bed.