Time slowed down imperceptibly under an untrustworthy sun. Light becomes matter. We live eternities and the only thing that’s ever fast is being born. In the year 17 we went to the store. I waited for the plant to sprout, grow and bear fruit; in another aisle you read the history of humanity as the planets strayed further off their axis in an epoch-long afternoon. In the year 32 we made soup, and in the distant future we shared a meal over a table laden heavily with dust and the accumulated aches of millions of hours.