Time
Time passes.
Even when it seems impossible.
Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise.
It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass, it does.
Even when it seems impossible.
Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise.
It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass, it does.
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