Protest the passing of the world. Mark and erase and paw and taw your way across the infinite palimpsest. An isolated instance of time seems to tear and pull apart to reveal the timelessness behind it, but that perception too lasts only a moment, not for, as you had hoped, ever. Anyway, who bothers to describe a thing except when they cannot attain it, when they have already lost it? To write at all is to embrace the passing of the world. A whirling embrace, stuttered solecisms.