one who bares fangs at god
They say that time passes more slowly when you’re doing something new. I’m not sure about that; for me, I get more of a paradoxical sense of time both crawling and racing by.
Memories are often likened to books, as if they can be opened on demand, flipped to the page where you had your first kiss, and all the emotions and circumstances are writ large on the page, indelible, unchanging. Precious.
And they are like books, but not exactly in that way. We dog-ear pages; the spines acquire wrinkles. Inadvertence and irrepressible chemistry leave the paper yellow and stained. As we grow and change, what was once poignant turns pallid and stale.