And suddenly, time expands, a pupil dilating, a yawning sack. In the morning, I wake. A falsehood. I am already awake. I have been awake for hours, maybe minutes, but more likely hours- the baby is crying and I'm adrift inside every second, clinging to its spar.
Time during infancy is the most voluminous it will ever be. And the most constricted.
This is not a new observation, but every observation, embodied, cuts.
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