Let us presuppose the existence of two species of times, which are in any case separated by language (at least in some languages, while in others they coincide significantly): tempo and tempo, temps and temps, време and време, das Wetter and die Zeit, weather and time.
The first one, time, is vectoral and linear, while weather twists, folds and tangles. The one seems immaterial, empty, an all-encompassing ether of existants and of existence itself; the other is a material force that passes through bodies, takes over them, bends them, intertwines them, spins, unfolds, swells up beneath the earth, traverses the stratosphere, develops plans, spreads into fronts, displaces them, whirls them about, precipitates them into a spiral of acceleration, cuts sections. The weather of the whirlwind and the storm, of tranquilisation and sedimentation, of intensification and extension, of expansion.
The weather of the pine-tree, of the yew, the weather of the iceberg and the fjord, of constellations and comets, the weather of the gaseous substance. The weather of the body.
The weather that sediments and spins the fabrics of us.
We are fabric. What lives is fabric. Matter is fabric. Weather is fabric. The starry fabric. The spindle of the Milky Way.