“Perhaps time exists only when we turn toward it and measure it. When we lose track of time, we find infinity.”
It was Sunday, February 15, 2026.
By the calendar of the visible world, it was an ordinary winter afternoon in Ontario — a grey sky, salt-streaked roads, the long patience of February. But by the archetypal climate in which I track the movement of unseen things, it was the fifteenth day: the day of Le Diable, unfolding inside a month governed by the silent authority of La Papesse.
I was driving.
Highway 6.
That peculiar state took hold — the one I am now very accustomed to — where the body drives with perfect competence while the mind drifts into a lucid elsewhere. The engine hummed beneath me, a continuous mechanical Om. Asphalt streamed backward. The world reduced itself to rhythm, to forward motion.
And then it arrived.
Not as a thought constructed through effort.
Not as an argument.
It entered the car as a presence.
A realization about aging.
About entropy.
About the secret suspension hidden inside lived time.
I looked at the dashboard.
15:42
The digits burned green in the dim interior like coordinates.
The Anatomy of the Hour
Fifteen.
Le Diable.
Forty-two.
Four plus two is six: L’Amoureux.
Fifteen also reduces to six.
The hour itself revealed the image:
The Devil resting upon the Lovers.
But not the Devil of fear.
Pan.
The living god of instinct, music, desire, terror, and ecstatic dissolution — standing upon union, the binding force founded on love.
As the kilometers passed, the number opened further.
Six becomes four and two.
Four — L’Empereur
the architecture of incarnation
Two — La Papesse
the closed book, the silent gestation of knowledge
The moment was a nesting architecture:
Pan
standing on Union
whose skeleton was the Emperor
holding the hidden book of the Papesse.
The Mirror of the Road
At the same time the outer world began to speak the same language.
I was on Highway 6 — the Lovers.
I was approaching Highway 403.
4 + 0 + 3 = 7
Le Chariot.
I was physically traveling from the Six to the Seven.
Union → Motion.
And the sum of the passage:
6 + 7 = 13
Arcanum sans nom.
Transformation.
Reconfiguration.
The rebuild after the fall.
The clock was time.
The road was space.
Both were telling the same story.
The ramp between highways became the threshold between arcana.
Suspension in the hour.
Transformation in the turn.
The Galactic Alignment
Later, when I cast the chart for that exact second — 15:42 — the heavens revealed their own architecture.
The Vertex stood at precisely the same degree, minute, and second as the Galactic Center:
27° 12′ 56″
The number unfolded into its own procession of presences:
27 — L’Hermite — Chronos
the lantern of deep time
12 — Le Pendu — Orpheus
my birth number
the suspended one who sees by inversion
the singer between worlds
56 → 11 — La Force — Artemis
the calm hand that holds the lion without violence
And all of this in House Five:
the solar chamber
the child
creation for its own sake
the place where time disappears because presence becomes complete.
The Mathematics of Suspension
The arithmetic of the hour completed the revelation.
1 + 5 + 4 + 2 = 12
15 + 42 = 57 → 12
Two paths.
One result.
The entire configuration resolves into Le Pendu.
The suspended state.
The Orphic condition.
And with it came the theory in its simplest form:
Entropy feeds on resistance.
When we count time, when we fight it, when we measure ourselves against it, the ripples multiply and disorder grows.
But when we lose track of time — when we enter absorption, creation, love, play — the current slows.
The surface clears.
The aging of the soul and body halts.
The Passage Through the Ordinary
I carried the thought with me as the road changed beneath the car.
I spoke it to Karina while we were on the 403, the theory still fresh in my mind, the traffic moving around us in its steady mechanical procession. Saying it aloud for the first time altered its density. It had been a configuration; it became a sequence of human words.
Later, in the quiet of the house, I spoke it again to Clara in the dim light of her bedroom. The architecture of the heavens reduced itself to a shape that could be carried into sleep.
A thing must survive the ordinary world if it is to live.
Only afterward did I sit down to write. The article came first, the careful reconstruction of correspondences, the setting in place of each element of the moment. Then the song, which had been present from the beginning, waiting for the language of the day to complete its work.
When I finally looked at the clock, the work was finished.
3:43 a.m. I had lost track of time.
Exactly twelve hours after the hour in which the thought had arrived.
For twelve hours it had remained suspended — moving through speech, through motion, through the domestic evening, through the act of writing — and at the end of that duration it crossed its own threshold.
15:42 — the state of Twelve.
3:43 — the emergence of the Wheel of Fortune, the crossing into Thirteen.
The passage had taken place not only in symbol, but in lived time.
The Idea
My idea is that we all enter states in which we lose track of time. Sleep is the most obvious, but it is not the only one. There are other moments, when we are absorbed, when we drift, when we are so completely inside what we are doing that the hours fall away without leaving a mark.
I wonder if infinity lives inside those intervals.
Perhaps time exists only when we turn toward it and measure it. When we say that we have lost track of time, perhaps nothing has been lost. Perhaps in those stretches we have stepped outside the field in which time binds us. The body continues its quiet work, but whatever it is in us that tightens around the passing loosens its grip in those uncounted spaces.
I have been thinking a great deal about entropy, and this too seems to belong to the same pattern, in a ripples in the pond kind of way. When we lose track of time the surface grows still and the spreading slows. When we are under pressure, when we are upset, bored, or working against ourselves, the ripples multiply and break into smaller disturbances. Disorder seems to feed on resistance, and agitation produces more agitation.
This is not a statement of physics but an inner observation, a sense that some part of us frays more quickly when we are forced to inhabit time consciously and when every minute acquires weight.
What I am trying to say is simple.
If we could remain longer in those states where time falls away, where it is neither counted nor felt, then it might not shape us in the same way. We would still move forward, but more lightly, less marked by its passage.
The song commentary
Where the story lays out correspondences, the song performs the passage in lived time. It is constructed as a device that carries the listener from the measured world into the suspended state and then returns them, altered, to the flow of duration. It is constructed as a spell.
The Refrain — Naming the Gate
Fifteen forty-two / δεκαπέντε σαράντα δύο
The first act of the song is not narrative but invocation.
The number is spoken in two languages. In English it belongs to the clock, to the green digits on the dashboard, to the modern surface of time. In Greek it falls backward into the older current where number is not quantity but presence.
Between them:
Tick tock.
The sound of measurement becomes rhythm. The rhythm becomes trance. The listener is not yet outside time, but the mechanism that binds them to it has begun to change function. The clock is no longer counting; it is inducing.
The gate has been named.
Verse I — The Descent of the Signal
From far below, the signal starts…
The movement is downward, not upward.
This is the body, the road, the engine, the undercurrent beneath thought. The signal does not arrive from abstraction but from depth. It rises through the heart, takes shape in the mind, and in doing so releases the listener from the “moving world.”
This is the first loosening.
The Chariot continues, but the one inside it has stepped sideways out of its velocity.
Verse II — The Alchemical Chamber
A moment frozen in the glass…
The car becomes a vessel.
Outside: weather, traffic, the entropy of the visible world.
Inside: suspension.
The “storm” is duration as pressure.
The “fire carried in the soul” is the solar force of the Fifth House — the creative core that maintains form when external structure dissolves.
This is the state in which time continues but no longer accumulates.
The Refrains — The Pulse of the Threshold
Each return to
δεκαπέντε σαράντα δύο / Tick tock
is a tightening of the circle.
The listener is being trained. The number becomes familiar. The rhythm becomes bodily. The gate is no longer an idea — it is a place one can enter.
Repetition here is not emphasis.
It is induction.
The Chorus — The Field of Twelve
I drift upon the silent stream…
This is the arrival at the number to which the hour reduces.
Twelve.
Le Pendu.
The suspension in which nothing advances and nothing is lost.
The “silent stream” is duration without measurement.
The “living dream” is consciousness without resistance.
The slowing of the current is the slowing of entropy as it is experienced from within.
“Wasted years” dissolve because they were never years — only the sensation of friction against the flow.
This is the state in which the theory becomes real.
The Soft Refrain — The Fading of the Mechanism
Tick tock, softer.
Time is still present, but its authority has been broken.
The listener has learned how to hear it differently.
The Realization — The Return Through Thirteen
The second hand begins to flee…
The spell cannot remain closed.
The world returns. Gravity resumes. The clock continues.
But the number has changed.
Fifteen forty-three.
δεκαπέντε σαράντα τρία.
Thirteen.
Arcanum sans nom.
This is not death in the crude sense. It is reconfiguration — the form that emerges after suspension. The return to motion carrying the knowledge that motion is not binding.
The singer does not escape time.
The singer re-enters it having discovered the point at which it opens.
The Structure as Initiation
Heard in sequence, the song performs a complete operation:
- The gate is named.
- The signal descends.
- The vessel is sealed.
- The state of suspension is entered.
- Time is heard differently.
- The world returns in another form.
It is the passage from Twelve to Thirteen.
From hanging to transformation.
From duration as weight to duration as movement.
Why It Had to Be a Song
The story can describe the architecture of the moment.
Only the song can reproduce its condition.
Because the state it speaks of — the loss of measured time — cannot be argued into existence. It must be induced, rhythmically, in the body of the listener.
The song is the working model of the theory.
It is the gate that can be opened again.
Every time the number is spoken.
The Song: Fifteen Forty-Two
[Refrain]
Fifteen forty-two
δεκαπέντε σαράντα δύο
Tick tock Tick tock
[Verse 1]
From far below, the signal starts
A frequency within my heart
A shape now gathers in the mind
I leave the moving world behind
[Refrain]
δεκαπέντε σαράντα δύο
Tick tock Tick tock
[Verse 2]
A moment frozen in the glass
While waiting for the storm to pass
A fire carried in my soul
To give me form and keep me whole
[Refrain]
Tick tock tick tock
[Refrain]
δεκαπέντε σαράντα δύο
[Chorus – bloom]
I drift upon the silent stream
Awake inside a living dream
The current slows, the vision clears
Dissolving all the wasted years
[Refrain – softer]
Tick tock tick tock
[Verse – realization]
The second hand begins to flee
A shift in my reality
I blink my eyes and I can see
It’s fifteen forty-three
(fifteen forty-three…)
δεκαπέντε σαράντα τρία…
(δεκαπέντε σαράντα τρία…)
Coda
I write this the way one records the conditions of a dream before it fades:
Le Diable in the month of La Papesse.
The hour resolving into Twelve.
The road resolving into Thirteen.
Pan in the body of Ares above the book of Selene.
Chronos lifting the lantern.
Orpheus suspended.
Artemis holding the current.
House Five, the chamber of creation.
The thought did not arrive alone.
It arrived as an event in which time, suspension, motion, song, and transformation were all present at once.
And it continues — every time the number is spoken — to open the gate again.
Loose track of time and find your forever.