I purchase a bottle of time, expecting the fiber-optic green flask to hold it, but the subdimensional nature of light keeps letting phrases out. My first inclination is to dip the entire bottle in wax, hoping to seal any further seepage of seconds, but the slippery stuff just keeps bolting to infect the dreamscape with my own clockwork calibration of disbelief, carnal as it seems to my only other self.

So I take the bottle back to the store and whine, but they just look at me with blank eyes and say it’s time’s nature to escape its vessel, that space might be a bit more compliant if I were sufficiently resonant with my nervous tissue’s hum.

Relieved, I exchange my bottle of time for a carton of ten pocket-sized boxes of space, hoping my own container’s aquarium life pendulum, multiplied by a headlong swim along the butterscotch fuse of Blakean innocence, might corral my wits long enough to recall the texture of my Andromeda doll’s voice, which I hardly need tell you contradicts the pan-galactic nature of that clattering magnet.

Now I’m back. Time and space again flavor my current instantiation’s disorder of symbiotic rubbings, and my pet mouse and transfinite guru Ramona tells me to stop posing as if I have a say in eternity’s incarcerations. At least for now.