It’s like a kaleidoscope somehow, constantly changing. And it is bigger than I thought at first. Some things have a life of their own even though they are just things. Like dreams, I guess. It’s hard to tell if they lead us or if they are the ones following like a shadow. It’s a dance perhaps. Life is holding hands with death. Sometimes impossible to separate them, to distinguish where one begins and the other ends. This is where the violin starts to play.
”The sound of a train rolling by together with the lit windows passing by. The windows counts the milliseconds and the wheels against the edges of the track sounds out the seconds. The passing of the train is releasing like a summer rain. It wakes you up from a bad dream, shakes you up. Your breathing jump starts.
The heart meter besides your hospital bed counts the most precious time you have, your pulse your life pumping through your veins. Are the beats inside slower than the one’s of the clock? Or is just that you’re waiting for the next one to come, the anticipation slowing you down? Are seconds made up from the pacing of our heart? “What time is it?” was his last question and in a way also his first.”