It's always now. That's the game and the snare — the moment of splintering, singing in the same low melody. You can chase the past like a dog in mist, fantasizing futures but the body has only now — the static in your eyes, the weight in your tongue, the pattern of light on the floor. Clocks lie. Calendars console. But the gut? The gut tells the truth. It's never behind, and you're never outside of it — sweating, spinning, wriggling through the now like it's a skin too tight or too loose. No exit. Just breathe. Possibly laughter. Possibly tears. Then more now.