There's been a lot of talk lately about how little and how much more we ache for a place with a slower pace. The acceleration of days seems to dwindle imagination. Counting months, days and minutes with melancholy fury does none justice to the space of infinite hue. We're not running out if we turn and face in- the truth in our bodies do have beginning and end but there's a scent carried in the wind currents of everlasting tides we enter the endless ebb and flow for that's all that time really ever is.