or seem to. That's why human-generated attempts at randomness look so fake: if tragedies were evenly spaced out, say, every three months on the dot, we'd start to get mighty suspicious that someone was picking on us...
I had a sudden image of an hourglass last night, as I couldn't sleep because of all that !#$% wonderful coffee.
The hourglass is always running out, of course.
I am the centre point, the midpoint of the hourglass. This is my imagery, so I can be whatever I want... go dream up your own metaphor if you don't like it.
Above are those who came before me, some of whom were gone before I came along, of course, but all of whom will be gone - if things go according to plan - before I am.
But the sand doesn't vanish at all: the bottom of the hourglass is getting fuller and fuller.
Soon enough, like for Nanny, I guess, who watched almost everybody she ever loved grow old and die, the hourglass will look more like a pyramid. And there I'll be, one grain of sand, at the top: poised, ready to teeter, fall off, roll far, far into the future.
There's also a nice song by Pete Seeger to go with this sentiment of mine right now: One Grain of Sand (this is just a sample, sorry). Beautiful, moody, perfect.