Time is sacred. Or at least that is what we are led to believe. There isn’t an entity in existence, immortal or otherwise, that isn’t intimidated by its relentless march. Each moment is cruelly hauled into the past without chance of salvage, with us standing by as mere spectators, glimpsing the train as it barrels through, condemned to snippets and never the whole. But perhaps it is this transience that makes a moment so precious, maybe if it were otherwise, we’d exist without meaning. Time is our bittersweet shadow, giving us life as it takes it away.