Illusory or not time evades me, all of the time. It slips through me constantly, past me, and away from me and away from all things until it is gone. Matter may very well be conserved by laws of the physical world, time is lost liberally. This is one of the swell things to be counted on. It is as sure as it is unwavering, and I know that I will never get a day off, that time will never cease to thunder down into my head and roar past me into the fog of lost memories. This will continue as a certainty until I am a lost memory too.

But the pen touches paper like a hammer and chisel touches a windshield and time shatters. Suddenly I have something more permanent than my memories, more permanent than myself. More permanent than the memory of who I was. This pen cuts like shears through time and continuous change and it carves a small spot in eternity for the events of a single day.

Provided one has the talent to recreate it.