Have you ever noticed that when time stops everything becomes incredibly heavy and brittle? Even a strand of dust takes tremendous effort to deflect, if only you could struggle across the room to strike at it. But that's the trouble, isn't it? The air is so dense that you can't draw it in, so solid it casts the expression on your face like a mold. From the sink tap, the tumbling drop of water in its iron case is not even wet. If you could grasp the sheer curtain the breeze had just been stirring to help you rise from your chair, it would crumble to dust in your hand. Indeed, your own hand might shatter. And if your very soul within you moved with all its might, your flesh would break like a stale loaf of bread in the dim and grainy grid light of the frozen sun. But now, you can watch with the unblinking eye of your subtle body; see the bright messengers flicker by on their thousands of errands, usually too busy to amaze mortals by showing themselves. But their features are lost in their brilliance. Their intensity charges the silence with wonder and dread. Even as the clock face lies still, they stream by, almost too fast to be visible. One of them now stands at the corner of your eye. Wordlessly he speaks, "I can see you, but you can't see me. I hide inside where you can't find me. I act out as you, but you don't know it's me. I lie to you, and you believe me."