Seconds, seconds, seconds...

The seconds each breed for themselves great anticipation for so long, with such intense anxiety, merely to be vanquished, evaporating instantaneously. Each clamor of the clock's hands, each miniscule tremor that does sieze one of them, is the very epitome of dismay, for where so quickly did that second in which that quiver manifested itself depart? The moment discintigrated without hesitation and without warning, and the moment is always, always gone. For when does a second last more than a second? No second radiates more fulfillment than any other; all seconds are perfectly equal in their hollow architecture, their imminence, their inevitable, rapid leave. And, oh, tell me that second was not birthed in vain nor did it seep into the abyss of nothingness that is its perishing in vain- surely it was not of any lesser significance than any other second, now was it? Oh, tell me the death was not waved off, neglected, brushed into the oblivion one does imagine, and thus establish, making alive this place of nonexistance, so that nothing is something.
How long must one second gravely bare its burden of waiting? How long must a second wait to be stemmed by another's death- for how long must a second endure the guilt of knowing so many other seconds must die for it to exist- for it to be born? How long must a second worry for its own death? For only a second? Or for every second that must die before it as well? This line of seconds is neverending; death is neverending. Rebirth is neverending. The cycle is of pain and joy so long as the seconds' existance is celebrated, so long as the seconds' deceasing is not halted.