Watch the clock
'lil ol' fox

It just keeps passing us by.


Like a stream, with tiny gems being rolled along its bed, eventually to be buried in the sands, or lost in the ever widening delta of yesterday, sinking into the growing oceanic depths of the past.


How, oh how may I pluck those gems from the bed? Perhaps they're simply lost to the ages, and no chronomancy can reach towards for it, no necromancy can screech back for it. They simply glint and glimmer, as I sail up-stream, fishing rods a dangling, lines a dragging, bobs be bobbing.

I'm sad, that I'm no thaumaturge capable of miraculous feats, like deadlocking the planet and extracting from each landmark the very soul of art and being.

I'm sad that time is a merciless machine, eternally crushing the potential out of now and moments ago.

But that's life. I must master plucking the gems I see rolling my way, and dragging my hands in the sand for treasures and surprises.

Luck and opportunity fall in the hands of those who look up with their palms out.

Tick Tock
Little Fox