Time is a sequence of ticks. Tiny increments of movement. Filled with breath. Touching the earth in steps forward. Seen in the passing of light through the window. The spoken word. A glance. Rolling waves reaching the shore only to roll back on themselves. The heat rising in shimmers from the pavement. The pencil across the paper. Sounds of the cello playing up stairs. Driving rains. The brush of her hand. The shape of a tree leaf. Moving waters. Heart beats. Time keeps going. Unstoppable. It wastes nothing in the precision to present each moment as the opportunity to be exactly as it is.

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