There is a space travelled from there to here or thence to now some would throw, no matter the defining terms, space changes in time or there are changes in space who knows.

With no fixed point to measure from, no referee, and I am mindfull of space, most vacantly, as time seems not to have a point.

Measuring a yard a foot a mile, an indeterminate thing, could be a smile, avoid the stick, the start and end of a measured look. Repeatedly tested from head to toe the truth measure of life is always more or less than that assesed. Invariably as the starting point although available as a referenece point is never in the same place.

Each point is only defined by its distance form some other not some absolute fixed centre of being as though space is some spherical thing or any shape wherein there is a centre or indeed where anything stays the same position or even has such limits.

The relevant position of the earth to the sun is measured in various ways but most practccally in its shifting axial points to the sun providing the seasonal variations in aquired light.

Over such a journey through space with the sun the earth inclines this way or nay and repeats this trick within this heat some 365.25 days per feat.

And so we measure our axial incline all the better to define the planting times by the number of rotations we indulge until we engorge orselves on summers growth once more.

We call this revolution of worth a day and in one of these have our birth.

A day is now a measure of how long it takes but a name for the revolution it is just a fake. That we choose to use 360 degrees an approximation of our needs to predict the comming clime and whether to plant or reap the weather. Napoleon would have the rotations align with the simpleness of his mind and if he could have his way there would be but 100 days.

But here we measure such things by number and call them nights the time for slumber. A special change in space doth rear no time could offer such a place so dear.

Should there be no offsetting axis there would be no tempus relaxis, no season in which to sow nor one on holiday to go. We would not place birth within the year, unless of course the stars appear and against their majesty in black we measure forward by going back.

Without this tilt, it may come to notice that the stars align with the seeker and the sun every 365.25 and so the year is born afresh, yet each passing day and night are both the same whichever latitude maintained so of the clock that ticks what unit shall we use to flick over the work we do each day to value better each trick of how many apples we can pick, in the light of day or come what may. Sowing and reaping hand in hand no reason to fret when to give and whence to get. No moment or place could ever be more beautiful to forget

We measure worth by work done in an event of light of the passing sun. What need for hours this summers day? Yet some wouldst count the apples found and yet to fall across the zenith of this mighty hall . A meridian of passing event of spent love and consumer intent.

Now time is a concept all full of hope but nothing in this world does it denote.