the minutes pass us by, and, no matter where we are going, each one brings us closer to our grave. the time is always finite, whether it be spent well or poorly; enjoyed or longed away. An hour may drift by, wasted, whilst five minutes may be unsparable, a fundamental learning concept deftly explained or a gentle and uplifting song, carefully listened to, may change the day.
And as these minutes, which turn to hours and days pass they bring us closer to the things that we hope for and dread, and then those also pass, with the same minutes as everything else, and we are dropped back into another minute and day of otherness. DO we spend our time always waiting? or wishing that what we have waited for will not pass? do we spend our time better the less we are aware of it passing? once every minute counts, once everyu minute /has/ to count, doesn't the magic somehow go? isn't the fun in not knowing how long things will or will not last?
and, as always, when, how long, until these will be answered. And how long until the minutes, those worthwhile minutes, the shared minutes, which, in good company, can drift by and matter not, run out? or come around again? at this minute five other people's minutes pass with a totaly disparity in length.