I know that the proper way to understand the passage of time is as a collection of objects. A kind of tactile nostalgia. This is the purpose of the time capsule, to remind us that we have sealed ourselves outside of something. This is why introducing strange objects into a room at night will disrupt a sleeper's dreams. When awake my memories will slip into place like the bolt on a door or the wooden gate over a sleeping pathway. Time is not a river that flows by, occasionally swelling beyond its banks to flood the fields: it is a collection of faces that look up to me from under the water. I look back and the separation lessens.