The morning is not a moment. It is fluid; it slowly leaks into the container of the sky. Even before the sun becomes visible, it makes itself known by easing the darkness so quietly that you barely notice. Even when it’s your attention’s sole preoccupation, all you really notice is that what you’re looking at by the time your mind catches up to your eyes is vaguely different from what you were looking at before you caught up to yourself. And by the time you’ve reflected on that, it’s moved on. And you think you’re safe to relax once the day is in full swing, but if you stop to observe again you see the sun change shape and the clouds in perpetual motion. To make this digestible we invented order by way of minutes. But a minute is long and much can occupy part of one, so we gave way to seconds. Still, a leaky faucet’s drips can be perceived before a second’s life is even through. So once again we divided. And again after that, though this last time (and inevitably the time after that when we did it again) has been virtually useless to the layman. Mechanics haven’t advanced to the point where we could measure a much smaller container of time, so we put the affair of formally acknowledging them on the backburner. I guess we also knew somewhere deep within ourselves that this would be a never ending pursuit, and the ease of concreteness shuttered away our desire to acknowledge everything. It’d be a lot to live with all the time; the fact that there is no break of day. Surely it’d lead you to the realization that you could do anything you wanted. That there are no limits to your bounds, at least no reasonable ones demarcated by the halt of the moment you allotted for it. 

03:30:12:92

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