But like it, another comes, from the height of blue skies, a moment, the grain of sand that composes the glass bowl of a second.
The moment walks into a room as another leaves. They wave to each other casually, like two people that have taken the same bus to work for years. The moment is alone as it closes the door behind it. It continues to walk in a straight like, its speed never fluctuating. Pictures on the walls of people talking, walking, waiting attract its attention. There are more pictures, of train tracks, of chicken eggs, of atoms, of planets, of galaxies, of the sun, of the ocean, of cigarettes dangling in mid air, of snow flakes, of rocks. The pictures cover the walls and floor and ceiling. The moment gazes at them as he passes by.
Nearing the centre of the room, it approaches a great light, a blinding light, and the moment squints and shields its eyes, but continues to step toward it. Once inside the source-less brilliance, the moment stops.
“I am.”
The words bring a smirk to the moment’s face. After a moment, it resumes its pace, stepping out of the centre of the room. Again it watches the pictures on the walls, but now they have a different theme: they are pictures of the moment, walking through the room.
The moment is amused briefly, by the paradox on the walls. Then it opens the door where moments ago it had waved to the moment before it. The moment looks back at the bright light, but it is gone, and instead it sees another moment entering the room. They wave to each other causally.
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