Some plans were made and rice was thrown, a house was built, a baby born. How time can move both fast and slow, amazes me. And so I raise my glass to symmetry, to the second hand and its accuracy, to the actual size of everything, the desert is the sand. You can't hold it in your hand. It won't bow to your demands. There's no difference you can make. And if it seems like an accident, a collage of senselessness, you aren't looking hard enough. (I wasn't looking hard enough.)