In the land of purple, each clock beat to its own march and though each one had its own rhythm and setting, they all shared common space, simultaneously. There was a figured being sitting on top of the gears in one clock sowing threads of a fabric he himself was made of. Though not flesh or of bone, this cotton and wool made the spaces around. Each clock streamed in one dimension and where dimensions crisscrossed so did the distinctions between before and beyond. Everything happened in a moment called now, either you where there for yourself or someone told you about it. And through this woolen thread there were scenes like a bridge to see what he’d done before that he did. Yet this information was only partly received, as what he’d do he’d not yet done so for him there was no certainty. But because of who he was he could only do that what he does, as what one does and who one is cannot ever split, if he’d ever done differently that too would be his. Through the cottons of worlds he followed a trail with a dim of the light and the tiniest spark that upfront still held shine where reality reassembled each time made long journeys like snapshots of life. A dream half-forgotten to one’s awakening state overlapped in beginnings of each brand-new day.