An Even Newer Refutation of Time, Written on the First Day of Daylight Savings Time by Jorge Luis Borges

Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire.

Wait, that’s not right. Time is actually a twelve year old punk who pushes me over his twin half-brother/nephew, Ahypnos, who had furtively knelt behind me while Time pointed to my watch and asked, “Do you know the time, good sir?” One of them then gives me a wedgie and several noogies while the other ties my shoelaces together. When they’re done having fun with that, they steal my wallet, set it on fire, and pee on it to put it out. Then they run away, high-fiving each other, and skip, eyes closed, into the traffic on a four lane highway where they somehow aren’t killed. They laugh at me from the other side of the road while baring their pasty white asses at me, as I gather up the charred and soaked remnants of my identity.