A slight tingle runs through the lungs, passing air, gushing blood, tightens muscles, a light wave of stream plays. The heart speaks again. It says, "It's time". Soft wind blows, caressing empty thoughts, bringing gravity into picture, lacing beads of yesterday into the necklace of present day, heaviness that one's been carrying. Fingers shakes, toes awake, eyebrows flinch, "It's time," gestures the eardrums. Shoulders shudder, sending signals of fear, excite feet to step further, halt. To be lost in time when it is said that "It's time", to be honest, when? "It's time," frowns forehead. Time for what? "It. Is. Time," knees jerk losing balance. Feathers up ahead, from a little nest, from a little newborn bird, down it falls, above the ground it goes. This is called, Time. Musk fragrance of leaves from old books, thrusts into nostrils, awakes memories, delivers worry about the future. Throat burns, lips dry, cold tongue, a scratch onto the crisp of mustache. A glance, a stare, an ignorance, this is indeed time. Intangible, moving forward, leaves no trail, provides no Going Back.

And as I grow emotionless, time prevails.