After the impossibility of the movement of any object through time was raised in light of the fact that, in time’s smallest unit, no motion can take place (which is to say, that any given object in it is at rest, or if it isn’t, then the unit isn’t actually the smallest, because it can still be divided further, specifically: into a time when the object was in one place, and then the time just after, when it’s in another, and insofar as

any length of time is composed of a finite number of such smallest units during which, by definition, no motion can take place, it follows that no motion can take place in any aggregate of these units either—which is to say, the flying arrow is motionless, a paradox one might be inclined to dismiss with other oddnesses that don’t immediately fit our sense of what is real, or what it profits us to take

seriously, especially in the face of what we have to face) the need to commit to a new kind of take on what it means to be composed, and of how the properties of the collective won’t by necessity reflect those of its constituents, paradoxically arose—the way no atom in my brain tonight feels on its own capable of wanting to walk out into the street to see the stars, but together, they still want to, and it feels miraculous.