If I could tell you the words to define the meaning of the moment of which we are living is beyond the time that can be recognized by the mind that we each own. And the sand thinking that pours through the hourglass is very much alone inside itself which spills onto the other side of which it is constantly being turned over and over again —going on forever until the hand stops its reaching. And the clock must be wound that hangs on the wall without the key which lies hidden in the piano that plays the music of my childhood on broken keys that have not been fixed in ages since my youth.

Would you turn the pages?

Would you shut the book?

Would you look?

At the definition if it were you?

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