In the footholds of a yesteryear's drum. In the pounding wake followed by some. Feel the rhythm of time, time of rhythm, beating across footsteps inlaid.
Gauge the premises. Distant morrows, intertwining days.
Soundlight sprinkles rustic measures. You asked how long you have been here, well, go on and see for yourself. I show you the way, for I am eternity, your deepest desire of time. And there is no time too long or too short, nor distance too far. It is all within reach. All of a sudden, it is all within reach.
Beauty at last, this insinuative grasp. A stroll through the meadow picking flowers of the past.
Pick me, says a petal of rudimentary shape, soft and unbroken awaiting reason to wake.
Reason to wake. Find your reason to wake. Is it bound to your foothold or is it found by mistake?
Once in the bellows, breathing burrowed beside, inches of reason pairing inches of size, growing longer and longer until entering time, the wind catches the petal giving birth to the sky, and you follow the streamline without a thought to derive, leaving consequential matter in the trenches far behind.
Once upon a time, as you dissolve into motion sent forth from your howls, shrills of the passing turn silent and still. Faster and faster until faster stands still. And the tunnel begins to widen.