time + oon
time+(nothing=>but)

just the notion of today in its passing, a today recalled tomorrow, a today in which your perceptions could have aroused themselves to notice

Time can only measure time.

All that's salvaged in lyric time: today, not felt, but in being set apart.

What is the difference between disintegration and resurrection?

How about thinking about something other yourself for once?

It was yesterday that time had a chance to pass, that today had a chance to happen.

One, two, three, four…

any excuse to corner the hour, crazily late

In the future, there are no non sequiturs.

Even time, like men, disintegrates eventually.

In the time it takes to attend today, perception inscribes the perceived.

In this great suddenness, the expected reveals that it can continue without us.

But I'm running out of time.

In time.

On time.

the leisurely pace of the miraculous

Time is completely implausible.

Parallel lines of white chalk, H. Lloyd's fingers, hanging.

Little hand, big hand; bucking tongue of time.

Whose face is that in the window staring out so patiently, so dumbly?

What is the darkness that will come when time has grown tired of moving forward?

Events get around to taking place, and things; it's no waste.

The trouble with time is the passing, the irretrievability.

Time is what we tell ourselves is doing the hiding, the theft.

Wasted, passing, precious.

One day at a, sands of, on my side, after itself

Really, I have all the time in the world.

There are a million forms of ruin.

Was this how it was before the world was created?

There is / an easy grace gained / from falling forward // in time, in / simple time to / all their graces.

Time passes most slowly after the act.

Just in, out, out of, up, in, down, away, apart, together,

Maybe never more.

Time can only measure time.

All that's salvaged in lyric time: today, not felt, but in being set apart.

What is the difference between disintegration and resurrection?

How about thinking about something other yourself for once?

It was yesterday that time had a chance to pass, that today had a chance to happen.

One, two, three, four…

any excuse to corner the hour, crazily late

In the future, there are no non sequiturs.

Even time, like men, disintegrates eventually.

In the time it takes to attend today, perception inscribes the perceived.

In this great suddenness, the expected reveals that it can continue without us.

But I'm running out of time.

In time.

On time.

the leisurely pace of the miraculous

Time is completely implausible.

Parallel lines of white chalk, H. Lloyd's fingers, hanging.

Little hand, big hand; bucking tongue of time.

Whose face is that in the window staring out so patiently, so dumbly?

What is the darkness that will come when time has grown tired of moving forward?

Events get around to taking place, and things; it's no waste.

The trouble with time is the passing, the irretrievability.

Time is what we tell ourselves is doing the hiding, the theft.

Wasted, passing, precious.

One day at a, sands of, on my side, after itself

Really, I have all the time in the world.

There are a million forms of ruin.

Was this how it was before the world was created?

Time passes most slowly after the act.

Just in, out, out of, up, in, down, away, apart, together,

Maybe never more.