encroaching 10 year paper unfolding.

There was a list of two things.
1. A mother
2. An artist with a book of poetry and prose. My paintings would be the illustrations.

Its time. A bookmark in your self exclamations. A clock that sticks out of the pages ticking out sentences like, "I will tomorrow," only to fall clumsily on the floor and back to the same rhythm--thanks to the smooth edgeless organic, drawn over its unyielding journey, universe clock continuing in infinity like Mr. Magoo, dodging your pleas to stop--not even seeing your procrastinations.