I guess I just loved how it seemed like patchwork, like pieces of this morning stitched together or put back together. Like someone was here before and mended time so to be here again. And then perhaps at the same time it seemed a weakened sense of now, seams about to pull apart. Cracks. The light of another day, another pattern peeking through. Me looking through but still here. Caught between the impression of holding and falling apart.
Maybe that's just how I feel and my eyes sympthathize. Maybe that it why they call them senses.