I revel a blank page. There are too many in this world. Too much things to be filled, with such a limited time in our small, grasping hands. There would always be an anecdote to write, a sketch to draw, a speech to say; I can't keep up with the train. When can I find the time to live in the now and not worry of the going tickings? There are too many paces to be done in such a short distance. Will God give me a long life to finish it all till I'm an empty, hollow box? Or will I never come undone and my works in this world would be just poor copies to be finished on the other side? Endless wonder.
With such a small pocket watch.
I drew this cause I had the time.
Don't hate me.
