Hours.

And so it is that we lose hours from our lives. Time sours, and shrivels up like a grape plucked in the palm of your hand. And dies and dreams of wine. I could have sworn I’d known I’d miss the soft silver sound of the sandglass raining time.
And find, when its done, that I left it all behind.

I think maybe bits of us must leave. And wait where clocks don’t strike.

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