potentially lovely, perpetually human.
Sometimes I wish I could capture moments between my hands. Pluck them from the blowing breeze of time and put them in a jar on my bedside table. They could buzz around between the glass walls and keep me company when I'm alone. But being captured isn’t in their nature. No, moments are more like clouds, always floating steadily across the sky in whichever way they're headed. You can take a picture of them or write a poem about them, but if you try to hold them between your hands they will only seep through your fingers and drift away. Still, they are awfully nice to look at, aren't they?
