The raspberries tasted of youth. They tasted of the simplicity and innocence - when fingertips smelled of earth and not (what I would come to know and call) of life, as life has an aroma; it is the scent of time. So I stood eating the berries waiting for my coffee to brew, trying to understand how this day would unfold, how it would run madly from this moment toward night with an ever-quickening ferocity. "What are you doing?" called a voice. "I'm thinking about time," I replied, "it didn't move like this in my youth." But the words fell away, slipping between us, and I returned to eating raspberries. When I was younger and innocent, I could hide from time. That is to say; I could hide from what I would come to know and call life. I'd crawl under the bramble, snake my way into a briar patch and make it my kingdom. I'd dine there, gorge on raspberries and inhale the sweet smell of fruit, earth, and youth. "I'm thinking about time," I called out again, hoping my words would reach someone. But they didn't, not this time.