At some point, the days just started fading into each other. Seconds turn to minutes, minutes morph to hours, hours trickle by to form days. Days stretch into weeks, which watch months and years fly by like grains of sand in the breeze.

But none are wasted. Every second spent living is another chance for something to happen. A new image flashes up on a display, another pedestrian narrowly dodges a cyclist riding by, raindrops fall to the ground while turning the horizon into a haze of moisture.

Perspective is a weird thing, isn’t it? Minutes can seem like seconds to somebody living in the moment. Yet to others, years pass by as if centuries had weathered the earth, each second a new scar on the mind. Day and night overlap to form a concerto of light, car lights rushing by while leaving afterimages for the next car to replicate and replace with their own.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Time flows into itself and propagates onward, that’s just how the world works. If it didn’t, we’d all just be stuck in a frame that has ceased motion. Like a snapshot of the world in the scrapbook of the cosmos. Time has to be fluid, or we could never live our lives.

Three in the morning and three at night might seem identical, yet they couldn’t be further away.