Men’s lives are measured not in years but moments and though the winters many the moments, few and far between never is time wasted for the fabric it is, of our making with each second accounting for the mundanity of plebeian bliss the ecstasy of sublime conquest the epiphany of utter loss the apoplexy of impotence the ataraxia of the man committed to his own ending the distillation of my légende personelle the words I would whisper in your ear on the eve of my departure: make no reckoning of the gifts of Father Chronos make no progress, press not forward and do not be seduced by notions of better or worse, of justice and fairness for there is no advancement nor anything new under the sun be willing, always, to look upon our mother with eyes open wide in wonderment and a heart willingly vulnerable to the agony of what you clearly do not understand keep always your humility, for you and I are but tiny specs of dust in the greater scheme of things and study the lessons of the Buddha who left behind the breadcrumbs that we may follow on our way home [24 XII 2020]