Time grinds on, dragging us in its wake. We stumble, struggling to keep up, to keep ahead or, at least, to not fall too far behind. And time just grinds on.
You never get to spend the kind of time you want with the people and creatures that you love. And time just grinds on. And then infirmity and death take them away from you, and they're gone from your life forever. You feel the sting of realizing that you will never hold them, never speak to them again. Made all the more monstrous by the prosaic nature of something which should be ineffably sublime, but isn't. And time just grinds on. Until one day you realize that even loss and sadness mean nothing and crumble like everything else before time's inexorable march.
"Even grief is vanity."
{Albert Camus, Caligula}
