every four years we intercalate a day to correct an error in time, but the whole thing is a goddamned error. this was is now and will be, and this will be already was and forever is, and this is will be again and was eternally before. time is only an obstruction, a clotted sodded embolism, a clouded and forgotten stigmatism. to spindle trees striping the sunset orange sky. to squirrel whispers and Bald Man hands scented by chicken jerky. the longing, cold-wind Honey cries.