Waves of time pass through us.
Like the wind, we are never the same.
Seasons return, varying minute by
minute, day by day. Still, our fleeting lives
will not be measured by heartbeats
or the breaths we take. If we awaken,
at all, we live to tell each story, sing
each song of survival, every chorus of hours
lending tempo, melody and rhythm, composing
the symphony that sweeps us along through
the movement of our years, with no discernible
score, no orchestration, a work of art that cannot
be claimed, only created in our name.