Clock in

Days too full and evenings surrounded with branches; branches that scramble up wire fencing to form trees; trees that remind me of a picture of Max's transformed bedroom in Where the Wild Things Are, from when I read it to little ones in school and felt old and young at the same time; old to be in the position of reader, and young for still remembering how it felt to be in the reverse. Can't watch the seconds stretch and loiter like I want to. Everything goes slow slow and then too fast after the fact is over. These days cinch moments together like a corset, and everything blurs in unison.