Listen for the syntax of time, invisible hands winding the striking clock, awakening the sleeper as each hour reveals its cove of secrets.
Daytime rolls in like an avalanche, illuminating the by-roads of consciousness.
Listen for the scent of present, the sound of non-occurrence, the sixty small silences of each minute.
Time blusters through the hours like the wind through naked branches, yet the present may happen at any moment, the chilling loneliness of your absent self replaced by a sense of now and the sweet epiphany of peace.