Sometimes, miles slip away as if they had never existed, yield their coldness into a warm glow. Sometimes, there are weeks outside of time, built through a wordless bliss. And, then. How we miss them when they have passed out of our present and into our memory. How we wish to inhabit them by way of an indulgent dreaming, recalling, retelling, invoking. How we linger. How we long for the next pockets outside of time. How we wait, as if anticipation could rush the seconds nearer, again.