Five Twenty One. The dense autumn air stretches the moments between the cracks in the sidewalk, calling out to find a whisper that dampens the impending second of solstice dawn. The season fades, leaking one last oozing chill across the city, the fading light of that now distant sun spanning towards the waft of cloud arching atop the morning’s horizon.
Five Twenty Two. We don’t wear watches for these seconds and the moment passes unnoticed, a sliver of time, traveling, wound through the memories of past and future, and finally dropping from sight as if a mere quantum twist through a frozen sinus gust. An odor of ozone and street salt. A flavourless moment measured by the mixed burst of quartz, silica, and amino acids on the lapping tongues of our minds, thirsty for meaning in a patterned existence.
Five Twenty Three. Winter calls, the tone of crystallized water bursting in the air, brisk and plain. We walk the city streets and admire the lights, heavy with the glint of white frost. And we wait as an orange band falls on the evening horizon, an apex in an inconceivable orbit.