We want to be first. The first to rise. The first inside. The first to state who was first before us. But time buckles under the pressure of desire. And "first" empties into a now that is never the same. The mirror on the wall looks into its own past, past itself looking. All we can hope for is to come between, breaking the circuit with our own blindspots. Every second is first in line. Every second is our last. The burden springs out from the brush, tugging us leg first into its close. This is revelation. This is the time after time.