Sometimes it seems as if time is no longer measured in hours, minutes or seconds, but rather in events, stories, snubs, whims, contingencies that life presents without caring when. 

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Any time of day could be Valentine's Day or the beginning or end of a war. No one would be surprised if the calendar marked a February 33 as valid or a zero in October without spring. 

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In the blink of an eye and an ear, tongue twisters could become melodies by Bach or Vivaldi; any morning of any day, with or without rain, airplanes will stop transporting the immeasurable dreams and desires of travelers to join forces with the birds whose wings have been damaged and remain parked on the dirty land of unbridled violence.

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We would not be surprised if, in any of their moments of leisure stolen from the people, politicians looked at themselves in a mirror broken by time and discovered the marks of the lies they accumulated in each of their proselytizing campaigns, devoid of truth and full of promises they would never fulfill. And even if their mortal sins became sufferings only perceptible to the unwary who voted for them, believing that the rains of misery would finally stop.

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At any quarter to eight on any day, the locks of slavery could automatically open and free all those who at this point in their lives have discovered that they have the right to walk without crutches or shackles or blindfolds or with their minds controlled by the ideals of others.

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Since there were no hours, perhaps there would be no need to invent excuses for late arrivals or unannounced absences or eternal silences. The trains would arrive early or late at the different stations but nobody would know and the platforms would lose the crowds and would fill up with bewildered people and the newspaper vendors would not know if they were offering morning or evening newspapers and if the news was from today, yesterday or the carnival special.

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Christmas would be surrounded by uncertainty and Santa Claus would be involved in it. Will the children be sleeping or waiting by the fireplace to surprise him and stroke his beard? When would it be midnight? When would it be New Year's Eve? When would it be Easter? When would it be time to say “I love you” to the woman of your dreams? When would it be time to tell her “I can't be without you for a minute”? When would it be “The hour of truth”? What would happen to the minute of silence for this one or that one? 

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Time controls our lives without hesitation; it ties us up, it strangles us, it makes us hurry so as not to go anywhere; it forces us to be the needles of a round world full of lines and the waste left by modernism with its comings and goings, and no one knows which is one and which is the other.