Time does not arrive correctly. It is present, but it does not line up. The usual agreement between sequence and sense is missing.

Nothing feels delayed. Nothing feels early. Yet something refuses to take its place.

This is not disruption. Disruption implies an event. What is here is quieter, like a gap that does not announce itself as a gap.

Awareness notices the mismatch without trying to repair it. The urge to correct—calendar, order, cause—arises and passes without traction. Correction would require believing that alignment is owed.

In this interval, continuity loosens without breaking. What came before does not explain what is here. What follows is not anticipated. Presence does not consult direction.

The body registers time, but not meaningfully. Breath continues. Attention flickers. None of it assembles into narrative.

There is a subtle pressure to normalize this. To translate it into metaphor or anomaly. That pressure is felt, then left untouched.

An interval without date does not ask to be remembered. It does not ask to be marked. It does not insist on consequence.

It simply exists without coordinates, neither inside time nor outside it, neither wrong nor corrected.

Staying here does not feel like waiting. Waiting would assume arrival. This interval has no such promise.

Nothing resolves. Nothing advances. But something persists without explanation.

And in that persistence, time does not fail, it just does not assert itself.