Time has always seemed to me like a writer tormented at the hands of his own trillions of transient ideas for the stories we'll all tell one another over cocktails or gravestones.

Time gives up halfway on some tales, sweeping them in effortless, echo-less motions from the table to the floor, already forgotten.
_________________________

you promised me bluebells
and jazz
but there was never time, was there, Love.

there was never Time
for us.