I wonder what time will make of us, if it is to be anything at all. Mostly, we live on through our children, and otherwise, we leave very little of ourselves to the generations that come. So few, even of those that are blessed with inordinate talent, are remembered past the setting of their own age…. Were we so young, once, that we so full of vinegar and purpose believed we could challenge the whole of the world, and imagine that we could save it? So when did we become statistics? For what time will make of us: they shall put a label upon those born from this date to that date, and with a swipe of the pen think they know us all. And even this, only a few of such these labels become at all memorable. So much forgotten. But of all that is lost to the void, these ordinary things: what the feeling it is to be alive, and some have been able to express a fraction of it, and been loved: for these ordinary things are a miracle, and time forgets them because we forget first: you have a soul and breath, and you have you: a motion of the universe that knows it is alive…. Or do you?