From time-to-time there is a timely time for every season under heaven, a time to be born, a time to die, a time to sow, a time to reap, a time to do time studies in a timely fashion, but who has time? For that matter, what is time but a fiction by which we attempt to measure the immeasureable, a planetary indentation in the tenuous fabric of space, somewhere at the intersection of infinity and childhood.
I channeling Rod Serling!
Help! Get me out of here!
Ed.
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