Time on Our Hands And out there a great silence like a sleeping god.                                                 —Fernando Pessoa Every now and then, so distantly, a thin siren cuts through the quiet that cushions the house. Beyond the wall occasional footsteps. We are our own warders making sure we don’t escape. Disconnected but not discontented, larders full in this decelerating time. Flowers still bloom. The wind still roams. And though the days are filled with deaths a thick juice of history fills our veins, telling too of survivals and new lives begun. At mid-day see so clearly, as has been said, not…