Grains of sand falling can be counted one by one. If you look close enough, that is, and train your mind to slow the passage of time. When Chronos finally yields: there is an instant of pure beauty. You feel invincible, unstoppable, immortal. You are these things. Then everything stops. Then comes the boredom. For what else could come next? The boredom is so profound it would confound you if you could still be confounded. If feeling was still in your power, you would feel as if submerged in ashes. If you still spoke, your words would be stale and aimless. If you still saw, your unblinking eyes would be blank, coloured milky white. You no longer need to eat. Neither do you need lips to kiss nor fountains of cold clear mountain water to dunk your head in. Warmth is but an illusion – for when time stands still – there can be no motion. Without motion there is no dancing, no sparring. No sweat and no tears. No wind to ruffle the leaves on the swaying branches of the trees in the forest whose gently sloping paths you once loved to walk. When time stops there is no love. No friendships or sacred pacts to uphold. No enemies to hate. No strangers to meet. You can only beg for the grains of sand to start falling again. Not to be counted, but once again cascading through the fingers of your extended hand. In the hope that, before the flow stops, small enough of a mound may form for you to call it a good life.