TIME ANIMALS / Script
We are made of time, of memory and expectation.
Clocks ticking, in every cell in our body.
The earth turns on its axis, splitting time into day and night.
And sun sets the clock.
Deciding where we are in the day. Keeping us in time.
Day inside keeping up with day outside. Over and over.
On a collection day we work around the clock.
We take tissue samples that tell us what time the body thinks it is.
We play with the time it’s supposed to be.
Day is when we want and night is when we want.
You have all these cells, and they all think it’s a different time.
What time does the body think it is?
We plan and we dissect. We wait and we decide.
We are time machines.
We sleep at night. We are awake during the day. We remember.
When am I?
Am I hungry? Am I more prone to error? How do I feel in the morning?
Is it time to sleep?
Then we have to wait forever.
We are anticipation machines. A frenzy of feedback.
Constantly describing the present, as it passes through us in imaginary combinations.
But the present can be any number of lengths.
A week, a second, a season.
The day has gone. The day has been going on.
I didn’t know this.
Time is nothing until it’s counted.
The shorter days, the coming winter. Sudden rain, and continuous night.
4 hours, 8 hours, 12 hours, 24. Time alone in the petri dish.
I am a time machine. I try to keep a constant rhythm.
I always have time in my head. My cell time and my own time.
The only time I pay mind to is the timer. I know what the timer time is.
What the actual time is doesn’t matter.
Because the only thing that matters is that you are doing the things that you need to do at the time you need to do them.
We’re running slow. Catching up. Carrying a private time.
We need time to acclimatise, to be regular, to do something at the same time every day. Day after day after day.
There’s a lot of pieces we need to figure out.
We eat and we sleep and we move, to get to the next day.
Something started something in motion, and sun sets the clock.
Nothing feels right, I think I feel it in my stomach.
Do I have time to do this?
We're just trying to be efficient. Work faster with fewer errors.
Make something complicated easy.
You can get more done, be as careful as possible but as quick as possible.
I’m always planning. There's no spare time unless you put it there.
So I make purposeful dead time.
You could find something else to do, but you don’t want to.
What if I just went back to sleep?
We are time machines, trying to sustain ourselves.
Sometimes fast. Sometimes slow.
We might be missing something, so we impose an order.
If night follows day. If day has to become night.
It’s difficult to forget, because we can still see outside.
So why don’t I wake up easily?
With any tiny movement the lights come back on, and they’re hard to turn off.
We are made of time, of memory and expectation.
Clocks ticking, in every cell in our body.
The earth turns on its axis, splitting time into day and night.
And sun sets the clock.
Deciding where we are in the day. Keeping us in time.
Day inside keeping up with day outside. Over and over.
On a collection day we work around the clock.
We take tissue samples that tell us what time the body thinks it is.
We play with the time it’s supposed to be.
Day is when we want and night is when we want.
You have all these cells, and they all think it’s a different time.
What time does the body think it is?
We plan and we dissect. We wait and we decide.
We are time machines.
We sleep at night. We are awake during the day. We remember.
When am I?
Am I hungry? Am I more prone to error? How do I feel in the morning?
Is it time to sleep?
Then we have to wait forever.
We are anticipation machines. A frenzy of feedback.
Constantly describing the present, as it passes through us in imaginary combinations.
But the present can be any number of lengths.
A week, a second, a season.
The day has gone. The day has been going on.
I didn’t know this.
Time is nothing until it’s counted.
The shorter days, the coming winter. Sudden rain, and continuous night.
4 hours, 8 hours, 12 hours, 24. Time alone in the petri dish.
I am a time machine. I try to keep a constant rhythm.
I always have time in my head. My cell time and my own time.
The only time I pay mind to is the timer. I know what the timer time is.
What the actual time is doesn’t matter.
Because the only thing that matters is that you are doing the things that you need to do at the time you need to do them.
We’re running slow. Catching up. Carrying a private time.
We need time to acclimatise, to be regular, to do something at the same time every day. Day after day after day.
There’s a lot of pieces we need to figure out.
We eat and we sleep and we move, to get to the next day.
Something started something in motion, and sun sets the clock.
Nothing feels right, I think I feel it in my stomach.
Do I have time to do this?
We're just trying to be efficient. Work faster with fewer errors.
Make something complicated easy.
You can get more done, be as careful as possible but as quick as possible.
I’m always planning. There's no spare time unless you put it there.
So I make purposeful dead time.
You could find something else to do, but you don’t want to.
What if I just went back to sleep?
We are time machines, trying to sustain ourselves.
Sometimes fast. Sometimes slow.
We might be missing something, so we impose an order.
If night follows day. If day has to become night.
It’s difficult to forget, because we can still see outside.
So why don’t I wake up easily?
With any tiny movement the lights come back on, and they’re hard to turn off.