The way he sees it, either time slips through your fingers, or you slip through time's fingers, the choice of either living or dying. He thinks on those two things when he closes his eyes, when he sees things that exist only in the back of a brilliant mind. He is dying in his life but he is living more complex than most in the far reaches of his head. Thoughts trapped deep inside, flying across a landscape that lives on imagination. The places he can let time slip through his fingers, living far too much to notice the trickle of minutes turn to a cascade of days, to notice his red hair turn gray and then white, to see the sprout turn to a tree and his paradise to wilt and fade to paperwork and a more cynical green. He cannot let go of his dying self, but in his dreams the clouds still call out for him to come home to his land cleared of doubts. However, the rainbow fades to cloudy days, the sun is gone and the willow wilts in the shade, but the imagination that once was there still lurks in the places the man wouldn't dare to explore, not anymore. "Dreams are for younglings, I have grown far too old" The way he sees it, either you let time slip through your fingers, or you slip through times fingers, the choice to either be late, or to be early. There is no choice.
