I wrote some stuff and saved it as a draft. You can't regret something that was never there. Unless it could have been there and your well-being depended on it being there.
But that's another story entirely.
This room is slow in the depression heat. The fan helps the heat but the rhythm of the blades does little to create a sense of speed. The squeaks and drones of the fan report at a much slower rate than the actual revolution of the blades and when you gaze at the fan the motion of the blades is blurred into a single gray circle that does little for perception.
And so the presence of the fan only gives a strange metallic rhythm that is as slow as the room feels with a mood like this anyway.
Now the fan is drilling into my head as I am trying to figure out if I am going to do anything about tomorrow's work. Nope. I'm not. Not with a mood like this.
Motion sets the tempo here. A creature isn't alive to the naked eye until it moves. Rate of life proportionate to motion because motion in the passage of time is the life essence, down to the mere vibrations of those particles. Maybe this is what the mind models rate of living on. And so a warm room can feel slow due to mood even though the particles should be going faster.
We are going on the assumption that it is not all an illusion. Or less of a metaphysical assumption really, and more of a presupposition to this piece of rhetoric that I'm spinning up here.
If you can call it rhetoric. Some sort of hybrid monster. If I may.
Cause I'm no place to say whether all this is an illusion or not because the truth is beyond what we can say with language.
I'm no place? I'm not even going to fix that. I'm no place!
But back to the language. The truth is beyond...the language. Probably. Or not. Jeez. Thinking stings sometimes.
I've been tirrred, I've been tirrrred, I've been tiiiiirrrrreed...
For over 4 yeaaaaars.
Slo-mo Time. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again.
