there in the place of the passing of time the game goes along with assurance manifold manifest myriad lines tedious turns of occurrence
through blurring pace of monotonous ways the phrase it seeks punctuation to puncture the heedless racing of days to pause for brief consecration
the great wheel that turns from the cool of the deep in flawless perpetual function it burns the path old highwaymen keep as each spoke orbits injunction
the rhymes of a day are nothing at all a breath and a breeze in the clover but sometimes a breath becomes a squall only recognized when it's over