The spell is over, the hour is up. And I can no longer remember.
Once, the skies had spilled over – light upon earth, light upon light, light upon skin. That pale refraction of heaven I try to retrace. The fallen kingdom, the golden song. Must all unearthly hours come to an end?
Set back the clock, tip over the glass. The hands spin lengthwise; the sands fall flat. When did the blue-grey-green days become a mere blip in time?
White, white, white – the remains of the day do not remain at all.