The various paces of things influencing the moments between what is and came before:

It’s cold, the bucket rusts. Two girls walk by with legs in sync. They look at the tables and the chairs abandoned in tilt, continuing on into the obscurity of tertiary characters. The wind carries the hint of moist spring, the grass is hatching plans. A man is sitting with a plastic lidded coffee watching the cars. In the sky a plane carries a man who is far older than he looks, in the south a woman is far younger than her parents remember.
Now there is a band of wealthy men carrying briefcases, carrying ideas not fit for the person to his left. They walk with striding legs and sullen faces, they walk with the gait of impersonators. Alternately a man too young for his clothes eats a candy bar and walks away. His knitted hat is perfect for the day. His ripped pants still conveys what message they convey.
And in the end, a conspiracy of dog walkers passes, each holds thoughts that would terrify the person to their left. They all wish for the thing which came before, they all pine for something that was best left to sleepless nights and the drunken dissertations of yesterday.
Or, the eternal she strides down alleyways and smiles purity at all passersby. Her dress would flow like static objects and kinetic energy. Her pace is her own as velocity is the discretion of wind.