There it was… the lines from my forgotten book.  Written by a fountain pen— beginning to break free. The glass cage— seemingly indestructible— shatters with only a graze of fingertips.  Short tempered is its fading echo— sound wave ripples… screams ringing from within the hourglass.  Freedom from one makes a prisoner of another.  Hidden in dunes of desert sand, mysteries of the universe.  Composed of endless specks— bread crumbs of uniqueness are overseen, viewed on the outside as mere food for the birds… each grain is a second that slips by, a second that is lost. Digging, digging, digging, up and up and up. For every inch gained, an inch is lost.  Trapped in the cycle that never ends— staring at the writings in that forgotten book— wasting and wasting and wasting the most precious resource of all— although it never truly does, time seems to stand still. She has been lost.  That innocent being of the past… starry eyes, sunny smiles, celestial perfection in all things… I no longer have the naive wonder granted by youth. Here I stand, reminiscing over what has been lost, time slipping by, afraid to end up like the cloudy water swirling down the drain.