I have said it said in anger and with irony but the truth is that my days are often shredded usually by the ones that I love and it is has become such an expected outcome to be interrupted that I find myself sometimes shredding my own time.
Time has become the piece of paper that I realized as a child could be folded and ripped infinitely by more perfect hands than mine. Rip a paper in half and I have enough for both my children to draw. Rip it in four and I could bind my scraps together and make a little book.
Many pieces of paper, many tiny shreds only make a mess. It is not snow, it will not melt away and I can drink cold coffee and eat the burnt toast but I can not make anything of shredded paper and I cannot make anything of a shredded day but a joke.
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