I have a strange relationship with time. My circadian rhythm ticks off beat, until it no longer constitutes rhythm, for, rhythm implies consistency. Its idiosyncratic, unrhythmic nature is the constant. The only constant is the inconstant, and that says a lot. I have a marrow-rooted, stifled weight in my chest that is a byproduct of the transient nature of time. Time is fleeting. I feel time so deeply that the mere concept is palpable. I feel seconds in my skin as they elapse and dissolve into nothingness. Each one adds another line, another wrinkle, another marker of existence, to the inner layer of my skin, just slyly waiting to penetrate and mock me. Some individuals do not feel the burden of time. They do not feel the grim reaper that is packaged with it. They just float along the wavelength, without catching sight of the composition, and without noticing the neighbouring shadow of the cloaked skeleton. I envy this. I would like an unabridged edition of time. I am tired of single works that never amalgamate to anything but angst. These single works make me feel as though I do not have time to bask in the candescence of life.