Such Is The Cost Of Immortality. No

While People Brood, Time Skips Ahead Without Looking Back.

One Cannot Walk Down An Avenue, Converse With A Friend, Enter A Building, Browse Beneath The Sandstone Arches Of An Old Arcade Without Meeting An Instrument Of Time. Time Is Visible In All Places. Clock Towers, Wristwatches, Church Bells Divide Years Into Months, Months Into Days, Days Into Hours, Hours Into Seconds, Each Increment Of Time Marching After The Other In Perfect Succession. And Beyond Any Particular Clock, A Vast Scaffold Of Time, Stretching Across The Universe, Lays Down The Law Of Time Equally For All.

In A World Of Fixed Future, Life Is An Infinite Corridor Of Rooms, One Room Lit At Each Moment, The Next Room Dark But Prepared. We Walk From Room To Room, Look Into The Room That Is Lit, The Present Moment, Then Walk On. We Do Not Know The Rooms Ahead, But We Know We Cannot Change Them. We Are Spectators Of Our Lives.

Continents Of Memory Had Been Lost.

That's The Fine Balance Of A Fiction Writer...to Be Able To Give Your Characters Enough Freedom To Surprise You And Yet Still Maintain Some Kind Of Artistic Control.