In The Broad Sense, As A Processing

After All, Our Lives Are But A Sequence Of Accidents - A Clanking Chain Of Chance Events. A String Of Choices, Casual Or Deliberate, Which Add Up To That One Big Calamity We Call Life.

If Time Were A Bolt Of Cloth,” Said Om, “i Would Cut Out All The Bad Parts. Snip Out The Scary Nights And Stitch Together The Good Parts, To Make Time Bearable. Then I Could Wear It Like A Coat, Always Live Happily.

How Can Time Be Long Or Short? Time Is Without Length Or Breadth. The Question Is, What Happened During Its Passing. And What Happened Is, Our Lives Have Been Joined Together.

What An Unreliable Thing Is Time--when I Want It To Fly, The Hours Stick To Me Like Glue. And What A Changeable Thing, Too. Time Is The Twine To Tie Our Lives Into Parcels Of Years And Months. Or A Rubber Band Stretched To Suit Our Fancy. Time Can Be The Pretty Ribbon In A Little Girl's Hair. Or The Lines In Your Face, Stealing Your Youthful Colour And Your Hair. .... But In The End, Time Is A Noose Around The Neck, Strangling Slowly.

I Met My Wife When We Were Both 19 Or 20, At A Music School Where She Was Taking Voice And Piano Lessons And I Was Doing Classes In Music Theory And Composition.