Time is

Look around you. You might think all this is sold. It looks solid, it looks so hard. No light gets through it. It takes up so much space. It is all so extended. You might think it stretches on and on and on. You might look up and see it looming above you like a terrible tower. Or descending onto you. A griffin, a gorgon, clawed destroyer. You might think it so inevitable. All of it. All so hard. All so authoritative. But the thing is, all the things we think matter, don’t, because all of it is burning. It’s all going down. All of it. All the things you think have so much power, so much authority. None of it means anything. It’s all a great gamble, and the game is fixed no matter how you play. You will lose if you play. In the end we all loose. This is a death machine. All of it. It grinds away day and night, its gears meshing, ripping through everything. But it is made out of paper. It rests upon sand. It is rotten. It is decaying. All the death it produces will ultimately swallow it, and we will live, we can live, we will be free and live.