Each instantless instant in it’s purity defined

Like I stepped into my skin. Naked before, I half moment behind, straining to hear the rhythm, ear pressed into a rotted rubber tire, squeezing every nerve to recognize the mechanical assurance, the maternal heartbeat of the machine, the clock ticking quietly buried beneath banana peals, teeth worn bone steel axles, disconnected eye socket tin arrow gauges measuring death pointing earthward, kneeling atop the mile high waste mountain junkyard.

Now, threads of everything, visible like the edge of a cloud, sparkling like Easter tinsel wrapping, connecting, but never binding each egg with the next. Discovered, nestled in a patch of tall grass, beneath the drain pipe, brushing aside the crisp autumn leaves with a Thanksgiving palette, the realization that I had already been aware, had found before finding, before searching. Known without knowing, without knowledge. Cradled where my brow meets, a quiet sound, like exhalation. The future draws us onward just as the past pushes from behind. Strapped between these two cords we find ourselves in the present moment. Yet, what is it but a measure of our experience quantified, manifested as a drop squeezed from a syringe pulled from a reservoir? All things have already been done. Only yet to be experienced. These streets, these people, they are not new to me, nor I to them.

I hear someone say once again:
You remind me of someone... I just can’t think of who.

This clock is not real, nor is this junkyard.