Time is a slippery thing: lose hold of it once, and its string might sail out of your hands forever.
A weird time in which we are alive. We can travel anywhere we want, even to other planets. And for what? To sit day after day, declining in morale and hope. Falling into an interminable ennui. And meanwhile, the others are busy. They are not sitting helplessly waiting.
It was times like these when I thought my father, who hated guns and had never been to any wars, was the bravest man who ever lived.