The persistent drone of an idle air conditioner; the dull sensation of contact between skin and garment; the unwavering image of a laptop amid a backdrop of knick-knacks and corkboards—experiences I am having in this moment, and this one, and probably the next.  Experiences aren’t acute. There is

Time only gets so much of us. We’re born into its current, swept along for some years, and then, one day, we die. As time carries on, we vanish–or at least our thinking selves do. Our atoms are recycled, perhaps into another conscious being, but for us, this

Time is indifferent. It moves forward, unyielding, unconcerned with how we spend it. We are merely passengers, carried through its ceaseless current—into the future… which becomes present… which becomes past. Our lives blur, a fleeting moment in the vast cosmic scale. Yet, within this moment lies our eternity. Here,