I know sometimes I make up names for things that might be known by some other term— Once, I gestured from the crown of my head to somewhere at the end of my diaphragm, saying Vertical time; by which I meant all the ways in which a moment feels either stopped in its tracks, or many moments that suddenly organize around a single point: sand filaments forming a starburst or corona around a magnet positioned beneath a sheet of paper. All the while, the minutes tick horizontally onward: the minute hand moves from five minutes to the hour to the actual hour; a horn sounds the punctual schedule for a drawbridge to lower and then again to lift. Lyrical shaft of sunlight cutting through glass before the shade is lowered.