Albeit limited in its lifespan, depth of thought transcends its timeline and looks up to see several Sundays gone.
What’s Sunday to a fly? Does it wonder at the vastly varied sense of interlude in the seam of what’s only three appearances?
Are they going through the Sundays, or are Sundays passing them by?
Or the one past the other and the other through the one?
What’s a fly to an hour?
The minutes dial away in ticking seconds, an hour likewise, spinning clockwise, taking no note of the lengthwise arbitrariness of the width of the weeks or months amassed.
It scarcely sees the day, still the weather of accumulating seasons takes its toll on the hands and face of its host.
Our carbon, water, gas, and plasma form to know the diff’ between all this and all that, compiling decades, waxing with their shell whose ultimate fate is t’ crustily tic ’til no more’s thought the crust can tell the time.
With time no more to tick on past. It’s through.
Quote am Sonntag:
Des war nicht so schön ‘nen Radelgang, heut’ wie Sonntagen vergangen.