Some days, the day runs away with you. A bandit, a thief, a villain. You’re carried off, blindfolded and gagged. Where did the day go? How did it put you in a black bag thrown over its shoulder?
***
Time is running out. Time is running out.
***
Everything is unfamiliar. Where on earth did the day take you in its mad dash? How do you find your way back when everything is strange, alien?
***
For that matter, how do you get out of these bonds? They’re starting to chafe the ankles and wrists. Every move, a little more skin lost to wherever and whatever place this is.
***
This is not what you signed up for.
***
You calm down, note the details. This place isn’t all that foreign. You know it; it’s simply been altered by a lack of sleep and mounting worry, a to-do list that never seems to end. One thing crossed off, and two more jump to take its place.
***
Time is running out.
***
Focus. You know this place. You’ve been here before. Time isn’t original. It can’t make off with you to places of its own creation. It can only warp what already is. A time-warp, if you prefer. Something having to do with space, time, some sort of continuum.
***
You stretch, realize you have the means to escape. A rock that’s started to send shooting pains into your hip bone, a pocketknife—where else?—in your pocket. A spoon and hourglass.
***
Time really should pay more attention if it intends to run away with the day, you.
***
You escape the ropes, grab the spoon glinting in the moonlight, and tip-toe behind Time. One jab, and it falls apart. You measure it, spoonful by spoonful, into the hourglass. Time has run out.
***
It’s time to go. Time is running out, and you’ve got better things to do than let it run away with the day or you.
Image: Erik Fitzpatrick (Creative Commons)