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Words between the lines of age, an expressions, captured within an art form wide open to explore. Words of description, stacked row over row, a parchment conveyance of some ones long past thought, now stacked neatly, row over row, hoping to be read. Between those lines are the thoughts within a song, a song of old, as in old, the grass of a green lawn beneath that ancient oak, gnarled with time before that elegant home of old, shuttered in abandon, longing, like those words, stacked row over row, hoping to be read, waiting. Time, and meaning of time, what is done, not done, what stops, what goes, beginning, end, space, time, distance, are all but perceptions of our senses, expressed as something finite, in the mind or in some reality which we create as humans in our little lives of unknown significance. Look at the volume of the universe with all its matter. Try to imagine how large that is. Now find a grain of sand as reference to size, then a rock, or do we go the other direction, down to the molecule, find the extremes of our perception, from the atom to, our sun. One extreme is much smaller that we can find visually with our senses, the other is larger that we can appreciate. Imagine yourself outside on a clear dark summers night, to see the heavens, all stars with similarities to our sun, larger, smaller, hotter, cooler, farther and farther in distance. Gases and voids filling the spaces between, stars which seemingly go on forever. And then there is me, right here, writing these stacks of words in their neat little rows on a parchment, such that it is. I really wonder, these thoughts, wanting to be read, what is held between them, the age of time, the style of the day, the moment I sit here writing is now gone, was the time spent worth it, does anyone care, does it matter? Catch a ride back to homeward.