countdown

Craving for spaghetti sundays and the smell of freshly baked chicken parmigiana.

I am still editing/writing the autobiography, but writing about the present will never end for with every passing moment it metamorphs into the past and the future, in turn, metamorphs into the present. The past itself changes; like a gluttonous beast it swallows all, but it could never fully consume the present, which never runs out like the population cockroaches which never die and will never catch the future, for it's always ahead.

And there are those who say that we can weave in and out of the three: the crone, the old lady and the maiden. But even though it can be, the meaning of the past, the present and the future ceases to exist: once you step back into the shoes of the crone, she becomes the old lady, while do the same for the maiden and you find her wrinkled, too, her fair face distorted by each passing.

Each passing minute. Each passing moment.