The keeper of time to grant you liberty. That's what is sought. You look upon the faces of others briefly. Never pondering the theories of the world. You are a slave to its syncopated rhythm. It's mere existence calls forth the desires of people. That they may look upon the things they've done in those rare moments of clarity. Where time is but an ideal. How has one person's unrelenting efforts to obtain a dream be compared to one whose dreams lie in the rigid ideals of its own people that hath be given out for participation. There is but 24 hours in a day but, only 4 of them does anyone hear what beats in the deepest crevices of the heart. Our days are not endless and only the hour is certain. It cries out of seconds wasted. The souls of our being. This system of mindless wandering and willing rejection. Tis a broken watch that yearns to rewind it all. That which every person holds in the palm of their hands. To mend and strengthen it's weakest points, or to sit with reverence alongside it. Time is but a blank canvas with our memories painted across it not a law that must abided. The hands change. Then mankind does what it has foolishly learned these centuries. And that with each moment. We wait.