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The Lost Time

“I have no time” is a lie. Time is not found and curated. It’s not kept in a little vial on your desk next to the pencil you haven’t used since high school. Time is one of those marvelous things that expand and contract as you need it. Sometimes it can be lost, but I know where to find it. Two days ago, I was in a small, quiet, lonely bookstore with nowhere to sit and no light to read by. It was starting to get dark out. I was looking for a cookbook, something older and without an endless preamble like the ones you find in online recipes. I was searching in a dense stack of horrible books about french cooks and their incredibly boring lives when I was greeted by the cat of the shop. He was a slow, fat, lazy cat, which would explain the sign on the wall saying “don’t feed the cat," but it didn’t really explain the electricity combing through his fur. It was a bluish spark and seemed to bother the poor beast quite a bit. I knelt down to look closer and noticed that the sparks were seeping from the small brass bell on the cat’s collar, it was inscribed but the text was too small to read. I let the irritated cat be on his way and chose to not think much of him or his excruciatingly old owner, snoring in the corner. There were no decent cookbooks anyway. Upon leaving I checked my watch. It was a quarter past noon. I decided to grab some lunch on my way home.

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