The giggling universe. The repetitive Glass. The non-contact silences, forward stares of the necessary participants (or, more aptly, the participants of necessity).
The time that dribbles away, spent on a million minutiae, that are, oh, so important, and, are, oh so forgotten the next year, month, week, even minute. Facing the horror that one will never get there, will never reach the space of one's dreams or of fantastical thoughts (fantastical as in fantasm, fantasy), since time has slowly yet constantly erected the barriers impassable - and time, as an abstraction and a nothingness, can not be undone, pulled down, destroyed or dismantled.
Must live with time.
It is like - spotwelding parts of existence together. Taking bits and pieces of scrap and fashioning a work of art. The scrap being the jumble of disjointed experiences comprising what one remembers of one's life. The art of work (oops. the work of art - but, surely, for most of humanity, are they not the same thing. Maybe they are not. Yet, should they not be - for a fulfilling life) is one's life. One tries to create and re-create (and, in these times, recreate) one's life. In some manner. Hopefully as the beautiful work of art, as a remembrance and a memorial. At least in one's dreams. Maybe not as reality. Works of art are so fickle. One tiny mistake, at any time during its creation and it is imperfect, it is ruined. Is this not so much the lot of every life, except the exceptional few (note the double 'except' - the real meaning being drawn out) (and even then, maybe the exceptional have simply managed to hide the imperfection(s) - either themselves or by others (who followed)).
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