The Perfect Time.

I'll have a post coming up soon about time, and time travel, sort of. While looking through old files to see what I can get rid of, I found this short piece that I wrote forever ago. Seems like the perfect time to put it here.

The Perfect Time

Eternity is forty-five more minutes of sleep. This is the eternity of death I speak of, you understand. You stretch out an eon of crick-in-the-neck and peek to see a clock, an utterly inoffensive clock, a comforting clock even, and see a time that's 45 minutes 'til perfect, soft perfect numbers describing a perfect heartbreaking stillness

but your heart is too tired to break, so you roll (are rolled?) into a position so effortless and gratifying that it makes your previous position--make no mistake, a sprawl of unimaginable contentment--seem like a backstroke through broken glass. And no, you don't hit the snooze button, wiseacre, because you don't know what one is, because there's no such thing yet, because eternity is a long time ago.

Then you skate back to sleep, the moment unmomentous, somehow thinking you'd been dreaming and still are, and glad the dream can continue, absurd and unbidden

but there was no dream. There was not even this...

or this...

or...

this. Not even the thought of dying and never waking up.