Harvest

At the intersection of time and remorse there exists a point of connection between all things simultaneously platonic and quantum, fallen and redeemed, quick and dead, consumed and consuming.

Time rests against the wall, a grandfather clock of pendulum, chain, and toothed gears, a reminder of necessity, the upcoming appointment and obligation, of anniversary and deadline.

Remorse, ah, now that’s the tricky one, slithering unseen but felt in the deepest recesses of the heart, a scar in the midst of otherwise unblemished skin, a garden laden for the harvest that comes with frost in the offing.

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