The day stretches out in its own measures with sun and shadow, and you pass through its beats.
If you’re lucky you’ll end up by dusk with a pocket full of images – a sensation stained in your skin’s memory the moment a new idea landed in your mind’s nest on your commute, an echo from the way a stranger cackled in the coffee shop, the shutter on your chest when your boss scoffed, the space between clouds making space between thoughts.
Did you empty your pockets and savor the bounty?
If we’re lucky, the day doesn’t spend us but flips us like a penny into a fountain with a wish that we will shape time with mind and so add a few seconds to the day.
At least that’s what I’m thinking at the moment.