[He has no desire to turn back time when already time turns over and over again in the echoing corridors of his memory, and he a vessel for voices and happenings that unfurl without cease, forever unfolding even when they are not happening, but they are always happening, never still. In the quiet that follows this question, it seems that Quentin would refuse to answer, but his skin tingles as if he stands upon a precipice and he remembers the sacred still air as he stared down into the river, down into his shadow floating on top of the current.]

You see, I reckon it's like this. It's like if a watch stopped ticking, you see? When you don't hear the ticking, you forget that it's making any sound at all - it's not bothering you about what the hour is anymore.