And in the end, we all want time. How are you, time? I take it that you are well and progressing nicely without a care. How are you, time, now that I have lost? I know it all comes down to this. And this, when it all settles, will let me know what to expect out of time. And you, time, sits in a corner, sulking, but still, running like clockwork. Run run run, what happens when you pass? What happens to days that rise and fall without nary an action from yours truly, what happens to months that I stumble through, blindly and consciously so, and what happens to festivals that mark the passing of you, what happens to celebrations? I don't want it to come to this. To watch others feast on time, creating, imagining, thinking, while I rest here, drunk on needless desires, perpetually redundant. You know me time; but I let this come to rest. And now I want you to halt, halt time, you.