As a struggle against the violence of nature, I planted my seedlings in an array, expecting a deterministic outcome. But the soil has its own system of time. Nameless agricultural deities weaving threads from the threadpool, into the core and back again. The dream is an artifact of the centrifuge. It is a question of whether an event has occurred, should occur. And a question of what actually constitutes an event and what to promise, what to hope for? Occasional and cyclical: solar progress, lunar regression. Diagonal vectors across the spiral, lyric and noise. The difference is a matter of scale. To enter the circle of the event loop, to raise one’s hand, to chatter about time’s asynchronous machine, to fail to form a story. Process and variation. Each season clicks like a second hand, marking off cycles, shuffling actions from one pile to another. The earth drinks up the rain, the rusty clocks rattle and tick. The moon glances from its recurring seat, wondering ‘Is something about to happen?’