Unpin the calendar. Strip the days of their names. The months too. Forget to notice when one year ends and the next begins. Stop counting. Unpack the moments from their folders, from their boxes on shelves upon stacks, let them swell and wash around your toes as they tumble from their cages. And in the rubble let stand only that bare beat:  sunrise, sunset. And you will feel the dusk light on your cheek, and the crunch of leaves beneath you, and the cold young mists on your nose, and the colouring of woods as the trees clothe themselves. Without being warned, by paper and ink and dots on a screen, of their arrival. And behind and before you, gates left open, will lie nothing but time.