I see my present that is hectic growing old into past.
I see each moment that goes far away stepping backward, leaving me alone.
I see my face being deeply lined, hands worn.
Maybe it’s no use that I see the past living in the present, that I struggle to step on the future like stairs falling down.
Maybe I’m a pressed flower on each pages of thick book called Time, maybe a piece of beautiful freeze-frame no matter which page you turn.