Time is a curious magnet, attaching itself like a leech, adding wordiness to sentences, hope to fated lives, and eternity to thoughts. “Available in two weeks time,” he said, when eliminating “time” would obviate an apostrophe’s place and still leave him available in two weeks. It was sincere ignorance and caused no harm, but let’s resurrect a flagrant case. “Available for all time,” he said, because he’d heard it and thought it meant something and wanted me to know it. It was conscientious stupidity, but caused no harm, so let’s resurrect a hopeless case. “Not available,” he said, “Not now, not ever.” It was the end of eternity, the beginning of now, and a motto for time in the next twenty-four hours that began five years ago.