Time is fleeting; our days are short and our light even shorter. Bandied about like a bag in the wind, it's difficult to find our way, and easy to think that we should have one. But we aren't the masters of our destiny: we install fire alarms and paint windowsills and put up sensible siding, but ultimately we don't control our fates. An invisible wind, an unseen light, transmutes the fabric of our days, filling them to overflowing with beauty but not with time. Considering how my light is spent, I dare not waste it, for once it's gone, our mortal dance will be relegated to the dustheap of Time.
from Hoarded Ordinaries