Rolling, rolling, rolling

I feel rushed, as though there is more to do than there is time to do it in. The rhythm of life has reached a crescendo.

And the good thing about all crescendos is that they do not last. All things must change; this too will pass.

Passing, passing, past. My time has come, gone, and come back again. Cycles.

And like a cycle, this is going nowhere. It thinks it’s getting somewhere, gets there and just keeps going. Perpetual motion.

Watching the wheels. I can ride them or watch them, it is essentially the same thing: riding them is busier, is all.

Rolling, rolling, rolling. Time is a second hand ticking.