An Accidental Principle

When someone says the present is falling through our fingers like sand, they mean that the story is being written, again and again, falling through our fingers like sand. We revel in the language of what keeps vanishing under an arising friction. When you administer the mask, its mercurial surface becomes a roughhewn haven. Only the coinage of renewal embalms us in an accidental principle: a coalition of past currents, a gradient speed.

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