Time is a cruel blade. It carves a life neatly then trails mere residue of what could have been. With a thousand gentle taps it cuts the most profound to crumbs and lays perfection in waste. It replaces active engagement with the ghosts of contemplation, and the weight of existence with the buoyant release of resignation.
Time is a feather that cracks pavement, an angel’s breath that roars, and a storm cloud that summons the advent of whispers.
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