Glancing at the clock, which sees the hour hand finally resting at 12.

I sigh, time will enduringly wisp every fibre of your being into the next day.
No matter how magical the time was, it will slip through your outstretched fingertips.

Even if you grasp, pull or tear, you are most likely to hurt yourself beyond recognition.

You will be blinded from the blurring & vague finger paintings of the past and now.
Bloodied, cracked hands that will always fumble with shards of the past.

And it will happen again.
Once, twice and then indefinitely.

In those infinite string of moments, you only then realise.

Your heart only beats alive in the dusty backward of time.