Time.

The

stinging,

square-shaped

scrape

on

your

knee

that

burned

with

red

fire.

The

long

string

beans

that

with

every

bite

teased

you

and

tasted

bitter.
The

lanky,

tall,

plastic

Barbie

whose

foot

was

too

large

for

the

purple

stilletto

heel.

The momentary.

A long walk surrounded by cold blue sky and almost artificial white clouds and red crisp leaves blown by the wind and rain slapping the ground and forming baby puddles and the orange sunset like an egg yolk being broken and spreading over the sky. The lasting.