What is it we’ve done? What is it you’ve done? Mark it down. Make an inventory of jottings that concretize and confirm your fleeting form of being. How did you wake? What was it like sleeping? These happenings these adventures and intrigue, these escapades, this collected litany of reflections. A record of you-doing, you-dreaming, you-reflecting-you in time. In this so-called track of time. Get off the train. Get off the tracks. Go trackless. When you begin charting what you cannot remember, what you don’t see or hear, what is unreflected … then you’ve got something. Then you’ve got a radical departure from the norm and orthodoxy of chronicles. Chronicles, as drawn from Chronos, God of Time, and Chronos enters like stunning pellets of pinched light in your memoryless chambers. Where memory does not go, Chronos settles. Chronos roots and incubates there. Chronos makes a whole lot of time out of blank spaces. Chronos feasts on the glaring blank, the digestibly appetizing dark. Time has no time for time-outs. Time is a crime waiting to be apprehended. It is a felon with a seemingly endless track record. Round and round. A felon in a whirlpool, in the suck of a magnetic vacuum. Chronicles gather our disparate pieces into something resembling an inventory. It’s all extremely limited and small-sighted … but it’s something. Something passes the time. Something after another after another … to pass the time. Yet as the old saying goes—nothing eases the passing of time, not even the passing of time.