Over the weekend, I am told I will have time. To declutter my existence. To align the bottles on my dresser; to separate photographs from notebooks; to fold clothes and put them into piles; to align my shoes and keep them in boxes; to fill the yawning cavities in my bookshelves. To eliminate the waste of too productive a life. I apologize. I cannot concur. Time only exists in the spaces between action. If I have time, there is no action; if there is a mess, I am certain of compensation. My important documents are in a folder. My folders have no sense of Time. They are kairos, not chronos. I know when waste is excessive, and when it is time to give up. Mea culpa, mess is excess in itself. I have tried order. Things disappear over time: receipts, drafts, bookmarks, earrings, nostalgia. There is satisfaction, but there is also mediocrity. The trick is in finding the line that separates the two and casting yourself far away into a clean horizon or a dusty corner. Let production trap you there, before you counter it. Little by little, see that clutter too, is ordered. There lies your metaphor.