Distancefriend, who has entered my room in a chilled breeze through my window, here is a clock. It is round and flat and incon- sequential. Let us toss it to and fro, like a frisbee. What time do we have? The time we spend. Cycles, finite and infinite. The way a tree grows, flourishes, and dies. Then becomes paper, or a house, or fire. Invisible lightning strikes at random, and I have caught many bolts, and you.