Loss, in and of itself, is unit of time.
Essentially it is the comparative nature of different isolated cross sections of the linear progression that is time.
Snapshot:
A little boy with a smile that exhumes innocence from the spirits of the wraiths , coaxing the crows’ feet to permanence with his mischief
Snapshot:
Watching a game in the little concrete playground, hugging the goal post as this strange rush of enlightenment engulfs him, in this trance; his hot breath scorches his dry throat, his pulse drumming through his ears, he swings at the unlucky child that thought to desecrate his mother.
Snapshot:
He lies awake, with the blanket wrapped around him, wanting to sleep this fear away, the crippling fear of death, the realization that everything perishes, his first experience without. He watches the sun come up, learns the insignificance of passing. The day comes, after all. Time does not stop, time does not mourn, the sun continues to rise,
He prays, for the souls of those who perished, whose souls left their vehicles, and wonders , where they go ,
present continuous.
Locke
wassanke 