There was a time when my time was your time. When any time I had was devoted to few, no time to spare because my spare time was saved for you. I valued my time, just now more than before, and it is for this reason that I spend little time thinking about our time, your time, because this time I have no time to spare you anymore. If you need some time, I’ll still offer mine, but just not my time that’s prime – that time, I find, is my time, and only my time, to sit blind to what everyday still binds. That particular time is buried deep in the pines of my mind, in clean lines counting nine, my natural resource to be mined each time I meet the bottom of the stein. So no more of the whine – you can still have a portion of my less valuable time – but this time it’s gonna cost you a dime.  And any time I worry if you’re ok without my free time, if your cryin’, if malignant or benign, if better here or behind, history always assures me and whispers, “she’s doing just fine.”


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