You know, I don’t look in the mirror all that often.  However, when I do I’m always a bit surprised by what I see.  It’s not quite looking at a stranger but not like I’m looking at myself either really.  And I’ve never felt the hand of time.  I mean, I see the gray in the beard and chest hair.  I see the scars.  I see the little lines & wrinkles here and there.  But I don’t often think about time as an element or agent that was part of what made this all happen.

Time, as rarely as I consider it (which granted is more likely more often than most busy people becuase I have so much to spare) seems to be like an event that I always remember looking forward to in it’s coming…and somehow missed it’s arrival and am only now witnessing the ballroom after the party.  I know that’s one very poor analogy but then, I’m no Savador Dali nor Syd Straw.