La-dee-da. Time wombles up into a ball and throws itself out the window. Whoops what will we do with the rest of the afternoon? Will the afternoon go on forever? No, the afternoon will no longer be once the time strings past the third story window, glancing inside to slurp up ideas as it descends, passing by cars to laugh at their strangeness and down down into an open manhole cover. It lands inexplicably on the uptown 2/3 platform at Borough Hall station in Brooklyn Heights. It waits for a train just like everyone else. People are fazed by it, but then the the fazing goes out of phase and the time, rolling open and closed like a carpet is just another thing on the New York City train. There is a smelly man who looks at people, and a showered man who has invested time and money in his smell who does not look at people. At Fulton street, some loud young kids get on. The boy who is afraid to get his hair cut likes the girl with five piercings. Larry makes stupid jokes all the time, but people miss him when he leaves. Salt shakers are passed indiscriminately among passengers. A middle aged woman has a parrot. The parrot remembers the middle ages. We're it different times, the sly book reader would be a pharaoh, and the girl's cat his courtesan. In another scenario, Jesus rides the train and the guy who talks about Jesus is simply named Jesus and he looks at people like he's about to say something, but instead he buys a soda.

Doot-tee-do. I see you. Icey ewe. She'll find her way home. Tim-tam-time. Tim is more necessary than time to cook the lamb lime just right. Tit-tat-tang. Nothing tastes the same, but when you're waiting on lines or lives you might not notice the contours of the cucumber, rolling and unrolling in a sushi mat, sincerely defenestrated at the hard colors of the city.