witty-remark's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -
We all decompose, and rot, and surrender our carnal love and misery to the face of the clock that consumes us. To those hands that nurture then bury us. That rhythmic tic that beats silently behind our heartbeat can only be heard once our own heart slows down. But everybody's times is different. Some pace themselves within a frame of a minute, others inch along to the slow unfurling of the hour. And as the cliche goes, spend it wisely, because you don't get a millisecond chance. Yet, how can something that never ends run out? 11:02 p.m. - Tuesday, Nov. 23, 2010 |
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