It’s tar, covering my legs, arms, brain.
Clogged up like clockwork that’s been residing at the bottom of a pond for decades.
There are no eagles to pick me up once I’ve reached my destination, but no lava to threaten me as I pick my own path back home.
Time is meaningless and astounding.
I’m in it, not an outsider.
Tick. Let me wake.
Tock. Let me run.