Lying face down in the sand, Medrijev wonders, "Do I really live in this world?"
The sand covers his eyes and ears, and shifts in soft whispers over his head.
How the wind blows.
In the wind, Medrijev whispers, too, "I cannot be realistic." No sense of time, no ability to cooperate.
He leaves when no one leaves. He enters after everyone else has entered.
He is only able to grasp the future as it has already happened. Seagulls land, turtles float up the river until they hit the first stone that put them in trouble long, long ago.
Medrijev felt sure and unsure. To every living thing, he said, "Peace be with you," but to himself, he said, "I can't, I can't."
Time, please do not stop, please keep moving, but also remember that some of us never knew you existed. In fact, you do not exist.
Time, you are what does not exist.
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