Time

Time is of human creation; minutes. hours. seconds.

It is humanity to entertain such a commodity, though life knows not of any but the ebb and flow of the seasons, the gravity of a star, the first drop of rain from the impending storm.

Yet, we are not so distinguished that we do not endure the measure wrought by nature. From the swift streams of the heart, to the zephyr of the lungs, man and woman both feel the passing of such things in the back of their consciousness,

to the core of their being.

It is the ending of such things time appears motionless.

"Time of death, 2122."

At passing, it is then-seconds-hours-minutes: all a haze of being and lack significance. It becomes the song of laughter, the touch of hands; hair glinting in the sun.

What we have created to signify our duration-we know as yesterday and today, days and weeks, now and then - every second halted for all around, at ones passing –Apart from-

The Dead.