How long has it been since I last slept in? How long has it been since the last time I was able to truly play? How long has it been since I had last been carefree and childish? How much time have I wasted on not enjoying mine? Like letters carved into bone, a motif bored into a boulder, an eroded cliffside, the relentless, constant marching of time takes its toll. One day I wonder about toys, the next, taxes. One moment I’m young and spry, the next, walking on three legs. Each blink, each breath, brings me closer to my end. Some day, when I’m fertilizing daisies, would my story be told? Who knows? Who indeed?