Human life is the incessant ticking of a clock, the forever and the thereafter, the constant, the unceasing. Yet we, desperate for some measure of time, of progress, designate meaningless stages for ourselves to reach, to pass, and ideally, eventually, to surpass. This is one such meaningless stage: the successor of many and the predecessor to more.
Good night and fare well; the evening bells toll my death knell. Take up arms in flowers; cursed be these lives of ours.
Good day and fair morrow; let us usher in joy and cast away sorrow. Pluck the blooming love of flowers; blessed be these lives of ours.
When I first met you, I thought you were so radiantly beautiful. Now that I know you, I still think you are beautiful and all the more radiant.
It's you, and it's me. And how I can't catch up to time. It's the wind, and the silence. And my heartbeats that sound with yours.
I will never reach it, will I? Not until I reach you, but you, too, are unreachable. Am I, to you, as you are, to me? I know, but don't, until I see you again.
Who are you? I didn't paint you, yet the brush is in my hand. I couldn't warn you, and now it's too late.