Forget Magazine. Remember, Remember, Yada Yada Yada.

Time resumes its ancient cyclical mode: no longer the entropic speeding arrow but a wheel rolling along the continuum: we rise into communion and fall away into reverie, and the wheel turns and turns again--propelled by orbits circumscribed in flesh. We fall away, we talk, we caress, we smoke cigarettes and drink coffee or beer--there is no word that cannot be spoken, no caress that cannot be given, no question that cannot be asked, nor any that must be answered: the wheel continues to turn, as we recall in our private diurnity those larger, more eternal recurrences--solstice and equinox, sunset and moonrise, storm and the anticipated calm--that once informed all the metaphors of love.

Stephen Osborne can be found with Geist.