TIME was not there. But there is. On the crease lines around my neck, for example. It's lined up like a ladder. I walked there, not knowing I was on the way up, or down the stairs.

It was not there. But there is. In fat bags hanging outside my gastric sac, for example. Slowly he lowered his head. Being so full of where I should not be.

It was not there. But there is. On the tangle of wrinkles on the back of my arm, for example. Also the shadow of the scars, whose pain had been long, so intimate. I accepted.

Also on the hair that has been clear, the color of the fishing line, and I am an anxious fish, wielding its own age - a sign that time exists - that drowns, subsides, and shrinks.