Time doesn’t pass. It leaks through the fingers like a frequency too thin to hold. A microsecond splits open and the inside is already too much. Tighter than a click. Longer than the hole between two kicks. Earth is sliding at thirty kilometres per second. We are too. In the dark. Nobody feels it. Not even the floor under the feet. Our lives drift with the planet, with whatever light still reaches us from the galaxies, with the speck of dust that just crossed the room and made no sound at all. Everything keeps sliding. Nothing holds. Except those few moments right before the drop, when time comes loose and stays inside one single point that has stopped having duration.
