In my head moments move slowly—like a photograph. That pretty thing—paused. Analyzed. Appreciated. Life doesn’t work like that—it doesn’t stop. But can I help it if I don’t want all my memories to read like horse races: beginning, middle, end; over in a flash? The living, the meandering, the nonsensical deviant punctuation points across the day... these make up a large part of reality, too. Maybe the most real parts.
