17 Elevens

Verbs win over nouns every time. Objects and events stand still as time travels over them, plows them under, leaves them behind, distorts and Dopplers whatever light they still cast.

There are no Gödelian absolutes, but time transcends space whenever it wants—often when we don’t want it to.

I didn’t want it to for the longest—yes, Time. My back to tomorrow and the light from yesterday still hitting my eyeballs, spectrumming towards red, both hotter and dimmer at the same time, then more vivid and bluer and cooler.

And seventeen years later, the Elevenses can be just an orange bottle or forever or today, an anniversary that is fully circumscribed by solemnity.

Time made it that. I made it that: you can only go so long with your back to the future before relentless time wins. Fear sometimes crawls over your front if you wait too long.

And so it goes Today, seventeen years ago.

To my Allen,

…and so it goes, and so it goes…and you’re the only one who knows…