She wanted me to take my time but didn't want to give me any. Time, to her, like energy, was finite, and couldn't be made or given away. I was to carve nooks and crannies within the hours and place her there, or rather, the opposite. Time with a book or repairing my bicycle was now to be spent with her. And I would tend to the chapters and gears as I could. And for a time it maybe even worked out well. But I'm no longer well-read, and riding doesn't come as easy to me as it once did.
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