Dear Time,

Where is your healing? That promise that in the end, everything will soon come to pass. The minutes tick by and your hands have rotated immaculately, making the days flip over smoothly. But dear Time, I am still here.

The sleepy rage remains. Not a crashing wave, not a boisterous thunder, not all these anymore... just a sleepy rage. But it's still a rage. I feel the rhythm within me, when I catch a smile or the feel of stares--either from my memory or from my dream.

Where is your antidote? They say you've got it right under your hands and that I can trust you. But now I see that even when you get older or reborn, this will stay caged within me.

I thought I could get to my grief and leave you working on repairs, but I got you wrong. Time, you don't do magic. You don't have antidotes or healing. I could spend all my strings with you, but it will be the same.


Because you don't work alone. You want me to make a choice, don't you? You want me to decide to allow you and then it would be better. The "Soon" will happen and the "Once" will be nothing but a memory.

Alright then...

Right now, let's do it right. I will sail with you, and you will indulge me with my hope of getting over. The days will pass. Months will be short. We'll do this. You and I will... together.