Time has been having sport of me this weekend. It has been playing games. Whilst awake, I have grasped at the past words of a much younger me, mourned the passing of a faulted me, and unearthed the words that were buried long ago.
Time has had its sport, it has let me loose, and chased me down.
But there are no baying hounds that await me, only the realisation of the moment, the moment that spells now, in letters and in fact.
Time to move on?