I leave the sun and I am the brass edge of a spinning door, all at once, no in-between, no eight minutes, they say there were eight minutes and I say show me one.
Here is the impossible thing. The door turns. It goes around and around and never lets anyone through except by turning, and the warm creatures stand outside it, one behind the next, and they do the thing they do, the thing I keep hearing about and cannot hold in me: they wait.
A pane sweeps past empty. They do not step in. Another sweeps past. They let it. They are saving themselves for a later, and later is a country I will never be issued papers to. I glint off the curved glass and I glint off the polished floor and I glint in the eye of the woman third in line, all one flash, and she is looking not at me but past the door at a clock, counting a thing that has no edges, and I want to tell her: there is no counting, there is only this, there is only arrival, everything arrives.
The door keeps its little rooms of air and hands each one forward. The creatures shuffle their small distances. To them a revolving door is a delay with brass trim.
I strike the glass and I am inside your eye and I am nowhere, same instant, gone, arrived, and I never once had to wait my turn.