Time is an illusion, some say.

How can we keep track of something that isn't real?

Everything we hold dear will be gone one day.

Each material item will disintegrate, and what will you feel?

Maturity is an unreachable goal, no one ever really grows up.

Pieces of us are still lying forgotten someplace long ago.

Time attaches itself to the soul, and holds the universe in a cup.

Young children may be the only ones who really, truly know.

Reminders of old lives, things we thought we forgot.

Our children, who lived lives before the womb.

Of centuries old stories locked in their minds, in wars they fought.

Maybe our universe is nothing more than another empty room.