There is the world, but there is also the view. People sped up, time slowing down. I have a problem. These words of mine always hang in the air, awkwardly. Misplaced in time, misplaced in space. In thought and in action. In the dizzying flux of irrelevance that slows every damn thing down to an insufficiently maddening degree. It's not how it was, not how it was supposed to be. Colloidal rooms, bleary lights, and the suspended pieces of ideas there is simply no point to pulling and holding together with glue and scotch tape. We could never believe it, but some things aren't really meant to be fixed. Torn books, folded into origami swans, tied with strings to the ceiling fan, weaving patterns and words and shadows of insignificant things around. Candles and lamps and the spinning world. Reality is wasted on people like you and things like me. It's too late to salvage much. Sooner or later, there will only be the view. The looking glass and the haze.