Time is slipping through my fingers like grains of sand at the beach.
It’s a cliché, I know, but it’s a really good metaphor.
Grains of sand at the beach.
There goes another day. Blink and you’ll miss it.
I’d like to go back to the beach and let real grains of sand run through my fingers. At least then the grains of sand will be real.
How many grains left, I wonder?
How many years, months, days, hours, seconds?
Grains of sand.
At the beach.
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