On the Deception of Time, as it Yields

The starter’s hand is a barricade, separating the rider from his conquest. The hand is raised in front of his face, fingers extended, slicing the sun’s rays into wedges that warm segments of his face as it dips in concentration. The clock ticks inexorably, time pressing forward, closing the gap between before and after. How much time expiresContinue reading “On the Deception of Time, as it Yields”