The myth of time

I hold a respect for those who utilise time. As I whinge and whine mishandling this source of life it refines a cluelessness that I’m accustomed to. Through fumes of lust and moves, imagining more about what I would like to do. I rue the day that tick dwindles to a stop. Hence I’m rocked by thoughts of not, tying the knot with patience and impatience. Faithless spacious concerns give me more than two cents. The myth of time reigns as my only holy sense.