Time was measured out with such perfect regularity that time lost meaning. Gavin's every day had a similar rhythm. Pull. Twist. Push. Twist. Pull. Up, down, life circumscribed in ovals of work and rest and transition from one to the other. Scrape off the inefficient edges of every moment. Breathe in, breathe out, try to make the motion of the one to the other as painless as possible. Wake, sleep, and spend no time in between.
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
The Broken Eye - Pg 137
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