Do we not wish our time to pass quickly? We duck our heads into devices which live on our conscious attention. We trade unknowingness of our end for its fast coming sweep. Dust to the broom of time, speckles glinting about mid-rise and mid-fall just the same, fortunes and misfortunes, deeds and having done, boxes of fascination these crypts and keepers of time’s secret: Mark me and I fly fast into thrilling climb, ancient predicament, twin tumbling pigeons on tilt, leaning nearer their jackpot, knives in tow. And throw the anchor if you can catch your will, but god prevails through time’s quick travails, a swirling crank whirlpool, dank with healing hails; religious binding to anchored crucifix but eternity’s storms are strong. Hang on for dear life you time-marking Moore’s, this ride won’t last for long.