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A bag of time

Time is a thief. A criminal who takes our most precious thing, our non-possession, right before our eyes. It steals moments in minute form.

And there is no complaint department. There is no one from whom to demand your time be returned. No one to cry to as the thief steals away so often without you noticing. No one to chase him down and grab back the seconds, minutes, hours you lost to that thing that agitated you, that irked you, that made you weepy.

There is only now and now and now…before now is whisked away into the bin of ‘used to.’

I feel a book with time as the main character in the offing. Soon. Or, later. Maybe yesterday.

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