It is easiest to notice on some winter afternoons, late, that a moment is passing which doesn’t belong to the same day as those surrounding it. The light then is unaccountably different, as if it came from a sun much younger or much older than the one that will set in a short while. I can only assume that this moment belongs to a day which, for some crime or some act of unimaginable heroism, was torn to pieces and flung across time. Every moment of that day sank of itself towards dusk, where it was less likely to be noticed. Such a moment does not flee with the hour that encompassed it. It may come again and again, bewildered and looking for the whole of which it is a part.
People look up when such a moment comes, expecting to see something which is never there. The artist’s line goes off at a different angle when it comes; the poet’s word won’t come at all. Numbers don’t add up as they ought. Once, history was other than we know it to be. It is the lack of this day which has made our lives radically false.
At the end of time, I’ve been told and I sometimes believe, only the moments from this one dismembered day will remain, waiting to be reconstructed.