Felices Pascuas.

We were traveling from our hotel in Barcelona to the Mediterranean Sea when suddenly appeared a hill. It was no ordinary hill. The tombs of the dead peered over the mount and around the trees, almost in derision at us, the living. The ones too busy to even notice that they, too, were once the living. That they are still there, upon the hill, overlooking the fools who carelessly throw around time as though it is an endless commodity, a well that never runs dry.

I don’t count myself among those who look askance at the departed. I know that the sand in the hour glass drops incessantly towards The End. And that there is no turning it over to restart time. No, Ma’am, not I.

But when you cannot be over there where you should be because of fools and their tomfoolery, might as well be over here, gazing at those for whom time has run out.

Te amo, bonita.