Where does forgotten time escape to? Does it seep away like heat after a heavy rain or does it hang around us all like a fog in the morning? The seconds fall and form wrinkles that stretch across us like scars from a time left behind, a feather that smelled of roses and rotting wood. The minutes feast on us like ravenous vultures waking from a slumber of eternal winter. Our reflections move in slow motion, unnerved and apathetic to the plight of its supposed doppelganger, while we, tangible we, circumnavigate the void of our thoughts and predetermined anarchy with a crazed sight of apprehension and fear. We come around to gaze upon our reflection still running in place, still chasing the forever mystery of right and wrong, love and hate, life and death. We shrug with pity and envy before moving along to circle the world of ourselves once more with the whips of time at our backs and the hounds of hell at our heels.