The mill. It continues to melt away. Sometimes in significant chunks–a piece of roof, a slab of wall, pipes leaning out windows. Caving in, giving up. But also in tiny particles–the dust of those who worked there (isn’t dust made up partially of shed skin?), shards of glass tricked out in chaotic mosaic on rusted metal. Glass breaks, colors fade, metal oxidizes. All fall within Time’s purview, mangled by the days and weeks and years flowing through them.