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Dropping my watch on the ground won’t necessarily stop Time, but that hand of hers, there, the one going from the noon of my head down to the one o’clock of my neck & two of shoulder, past unnumbered ribs, & back up to the midnight of my changed mind, well, rather than Time having sped up, no Time intervened. Or last night, in my insomnia when all my own dreams fled like wild horses, crawling back to bed after three, I woke her to hear, “I just had our child.” Anything more loving? Apparently he arrived fully clothed, already a couple of years old wearing a cap, carrying a baseball bat. I wanted to call him Warrington, she preferred Timothy. There he was, born into a realm without Time, the little warrior/poet/king: Timothy Warrington Fitzgibbons! Don’t bother ringing Big Ben!



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