The Gastro.

Late spring. The garden rampant with blossoms, vines of herbs. Gallons of rainwater you collected in barrels over the winter now dribble from copper pipes into the soil. And there’s the wisteria, covering the fence and running over the roof with its purple bushels of tiny lungs. The riot of life. You slice your hand on gooseberry and later, when cooking for your friends, you slice cucumber thin as gauze for the salad dressed in olives from the tree growing outside the kitchen window.

This is your system for time. Because time is a language like a garden, it cannot be rushed.