Time. Time slips by as redundant tickings of the keys. A melody is made, though no great note is made. Of pools the eyes swim. In little jabs at this sensory bubble, we notice only that which has been made evident to us. All else is new discovery not brought up in our training. Words wander, thoughts throw themselves, and eyes endure. We know what has been taught to us. We remember the silly things to think they are unique to us. But, the bee remembers. The beetle knows I altered its path. My friend will remind me every now and again of that moment. The silky things are shared– for the most part, though I know our conversations remain bewildering to memory. I like it that way. You would tell me in whispers of a passing wind. I would listen. I, who listened only to himself and they who have a melodic beat. I would listen. You turned my head from tunneled site to branch of humanity. Humanity. That silly word which means what we are but describes few of us. Odd.