That's The Fine Balance Of A Fiction

Continents Of Memory Had Been Lost.

Who Would Fare Better In This World Of Fitful Time? Those Who Have Seen The Future And Live Only One Life? Or Those Who Have Not Seen The Future And Wait To Live Life? Or Those Who Deny The Future And Live Two Lives?

Children Grow Rapidly, Forget The Centuries-long Embrace From Their Parents, Which To Them Lasted But Seconds. Children Become Adults, Live Far From Their Parents, Live Their Own Houses, Learn Ways Of Their Own, Suffer Pain, Grow Old. Children Curse Their Parents For Their Wrinkled Skin And Hoarse Voices. Those Now Old Children Also Want To Stop Time, But At Another Time. They Want To Freeze Their Own Children At The Center Of Time.

Nature Is Purposeless. Nature Simply Is. We May Find Nature Beautiful Or Terrible, But Those Feelings Are Human Constructions. Such Utter And Complete Mindlessness Is Hard For Us To Accept. We Feel Such A Strong Connection To Nature. But The Relationship Between Nature And Us Is One-sided. There Is No Reciprocity. There Is No Mind On The Other Side Of The Wall.

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.