Time does that a lot, not with events too large for life, with dramatic close-ups and string orchestras that swell with violins but in tedious paperwork, numbing commutes, missed connections and a loneliness of being that slowly drains color, hope, dreams, life, all.
Time is a father who devours his own children. Time is a woman who gives birth astride above the grave. We see the sun only for an instant, and then it is gone and night falls.
Fill every second of the unforgiving minute. Make each one count so that the Angel of Death is ashamed to tell you when your time is up.
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