Time, a line, alinear, lingers in my mind like sulfur and cellophane strips. Sepia stuck in the frame by frame. Alarm clock dedicated to the system, but I’m simply too lazy not to hit the snooze every morning. Faking time faking disinterest just as wax lips and paperhearts pinned to a corkboard against the wall. Hearts burn like sulfur matches, bright, quick, ashen stubs struggling with popcorn in the cinema. Knitting furiously knitting a scarf and hat to keep the cold out, to keep the cold in. Paperstring or was it paperhearts pulled from a Morpheus loop into a knot in my throat. Time like Einstein or Newton changes phases from Quintessence into bubble gum shoes. Spin recursive metaphors describing the obvious obviousness of exposition and dénouement touching the imperfect. Flowing into tidal pools on the moon flowing combed Zarathustras’ bearded connective tissue connective strands. 231 connections. 325 flights. Twice I leave checking my hair in the mirror searching for signs of aging before I go, fighting the enemy from behind the glass. Graining down sand specks drift with the wind against the beach. Sand sanding down the sand. Gears locking like deer antlers cycle after cycle adrenaline races repetitively. Music beats and bleats under night club lights neon drinks blending into the light. Water faucet tears moistens fresh faces each morning before light shatters the glass like alcohol beads bubble around ice cubes. Chicken and thyme roast together, marinate forever. I left that day with a tongue of flint and teeth of steel enjoying the sparkled breath roll and flicker. I looked to the sun and said ”Isn’t it obvious? I ain’t on your side.” Sensations of time. Aging breathing respiring moving without moving. The world moves around me yet I am a part of the world. “Hey You” moments pulsing through my veins like ice cream pushpops. The big freak out of a screaming soul: moving without moving. What is beauty? Sometimes you just have to get so close that the object no longer makes sense. So what is beauty? Sometimes you just have to get so close that the object no longer makes sense. So what is beauty? Red wine and love. Emotion represented as a projection of a vast theory of aesthetics via synesthesia. No, what is beauty? Outside’s nature, inside’s culture; a progression of conflict, resolution, incompatibility based on an epistemological error. like bombastic iconoclasts and yellow hipped hipsters interpellating into the middle class oneday watches the stock-market ticker religiously, breathing and dying based on an idea. Some things never change, like letting tealeaves seep after ten minutes. We pay the river tax— work to live swallows live to live. Scattered poker chip moments in an unkempt playing box— Bella Fortuna sure sounds sweet when I’ve got the Rolex. Predictable xenophobic laughing fits explanation through demonstration, show not tell. A foot’s a feet’s a mile a minute when ATP stops and drops from three pounds of grey matter just like incendiary insanity, scraping age from my legs with a razor blade. Interrupted conversations in a dialect of intertextual distraction. Bouncing rubber ball puddle jumping from sine-wave to sine-wave, tell me, how can a minute break down into a triangle. -Samantha Derleth