Time falls at the dismemberment of the second hand. It breaks down and sheds itself like the atoms of a naked light bulb after that, in colors we weren’t aware of in existence. It’s hours and minutes rain down on us like an Apocalypse that keeps coming, killing us off until we spring up again, laying dormant underneath the earth like a disease. It waits for us to drown in our own self indulgent sings, until the metal of that thinner, faster hand collapses from space and lies down at the feet of all other clocks but to die. It nestles itself between the leaves and dirt and hopes that a Halloween will never come. Life is so much harder to face than death, it thinks, and never wishes to see it again. Somewhere Vonnegut says to himself “so it goes,” as he looks at time like a string of a violin and plucks at it every so often, as if flicking someone off to hear the beauty of that life’s singular note. He keeps at it, and we spring off like flies, like the very sound waves themselves, and we live between the time of execution and the time of reception. Within the ear, we rest and die, strangled by those fine, flagellating hairs.