We…we all pressed, compressed in this sphere of time and space
(when we think…believe that we have conjured up, manufactured time to be our servant)
are compelled by time (no longer…never our servant, but our ruler)
to move from this instant instant to the next, then the next, then the next
(on end, ‘til, come whene’er, howe’er, our end),
far faster than we can comprehend,
yet all necessary for us to arrive at the point of our next being and becoming.
Our control is an illusion.
Perhaps we (or elements thereof of us), too.