Time. It fills itself with the lives of completely different people, stitches itself together with torn destinies and regrets, deceit and suffering. But inexorably goes forward. Without looking back, unlike us — the mortals who are so eager to understand it. We are down here, hungry for the delight of those who will not utter a thought about us. And only Time knows the outcome. You can melt with the morning dew. Or you can always smoulder next to the stars. But posterity will never know the real you. Neither did you know yourself.
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