I remember now that the free press in Crooked Corners closed its doors a month or so ago. In that fictitious town there is no press that costs money -- only time -- but I don't think anyone spent either minutes or cents. In a way I have created emptiness out of thin air. My work would gather moss if it had even landed. But I am not a cliche from Eliot:

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

because I know very well that there is no time to waste. If I've wasted any time, it has also wasted me. The clock hides its face in its hands.