A large, impressive, cherry wood desk sat beneath the tiny hourglass which was to be my life.
An antigue hourglass with its intriquitely detailed top and
bottom was precise in its meting out of what was to be the granules of life allotted to me.
I preened while the first half of the passing sand poured down
into its unobtrusively-waiting receptacle.
I postured while another fourth of
the sand poured down in meticulous precision.
I, then, became obsessed with
the scanty fourth which passed continuously before me.
I toiled day and night to make a mark of truth upon deafening mankind.
In all of my many preenings
and posturings, I had discovered but one absolute truth: the only currency which would remain in the ever-moving, ever-indifferent sands of time would be a pure, simple, unfettered love: the true gold of a man’s life upon this earth.