As I look back at the life of my departed father, I realise how he had been a part of the transitional era that stood with a foot in the mysteries of the yore and the other into the increasingly…
Thus Spake My Father
Fungus on the Filter
The opposite of time is memories. Memories, a span with no beginning, no end, no periods, only nebulous swaths of consciousness. Memories don’t tumble terminally like the sand in an hourglass. Or tick away with the finality of the arms…
