When they're an every day occurance, there is no way to gauge them,
first it's morning then it's night. Henry somehow becomes a little boy when yesterday he had no language.
The baby looks like neither parent because her face is like staring into the sun.
Mr. Snodgrass is the same one as yesterday, however he is not the same one with the long hair that smoked cigarettes outside Rhodes hall and talked about speedmetal.
There is not a single biker bar on Grace street, nor headshop, nor dirty movie theater. None of them are missed.
Perhaps we'll be able to teach them together: people vanish, suddenly. Intentionally.
It is plausible that your cat will yowl and drag it's hind legs around your room one night, and your father will have to take it away forever.
It is most likely that you will die in something so common and banal as an automobile accident. It is not plausible that millions of the dead will rise from the ground to hunt the flesh of the living. No matter how many times you dream about it.
It is nothing to believe in. Besides, they only get you if you stop running. There can be worse things. The lightening will always come to release the snapping turtle from your finger, if you look hard enough you can find one older than most people you know. If you listen maybe he will tell you about the silty bottom of his home, the horned history he wishes he could forget.
Clean the brackish film from his shell and comfort him for me.