The time is short.

The time is short. As it dwindles away, it accelerates. As it sees the finish line, it begins to sprint; though we plead with it to slow down, to enjoy the landscape, it does not hear us - its head is down, it is running now. And we, borne on its shoulders, can only resign ourselves to the increasing speed of our carrier; we crane our necks to enjoy the scenery around us, but it is becoming a blur, streaks of color, with intensity gently fading, and the tolling of the bell in the distance ahead of us.

What awaits us at the end? A wreath of laurels, or the embrace of friends?