As we wake up and make breakfast, mentally preparing for a road trip, freshly ground coffee in my old red and white green stamps mug, Smalls discussing the whole in his wheat toast and how it’s the cause of the jelly drop, I think, we are late. We are perpetually late people, staring holes in clocks and wondering where time goes. The passing of time; that’s not really accurate to me. We will pass countryside and towns, roadsigns and buildings, and time will be as it always is: just a word, created to mark and explain the human experience. A strange concept, time, space, infinity. I hold my the same mug my mother ordered from green stamps, vanilla creamer, coffee.