Time is moving too slowly to count. I never was very good at it. While smiling I lost it, while turning I missed it, and while sleeping I often forgot. And I am sorry. I can’t care for you. I must squander till it’s dried up and I am too old to feel it beating. So while I can’t fix time, let me live beside the buffeting and the drumming, and the dancing, and never say sorry again.

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