Believe me time is always looking for things to do. Like the silence... of the rain...under a bridge...on the A49. A pulse unlike the tired tone of the tunnel. Or counting rubber in the rain. An insomniac game. Maybe these silences are different if I were to sample each, all the bridges? There's a lot I don't understand, perhaps more that I don't know. Including the difference. I could edit theses into one. Forty nine minutes on the A49, a selection of silences. A rejected beat. But is it not more the absence of where we were than the silence of where we are? So we are collating only the absences we pass through. If you were here I'd understand there'd be no time for this. All my life I've been looking for places to hide. For the absences. I was not in the same room as them but I am in their room. I am not in the scenery but I am standing in it. Am I then no one? In the format of a bag of frogs.