Another year goes away and this one takes even more of the faces and names of my youth. We all end up in a strange, future world if we last long enough, and if we've been paying attention, we know that's how it works for everyone.
Yet I still find myself wanting to ask, "Please, not so soon! Not so many." Time's arrow is inexorable. "The moving finger writes; and, having writ, moves on."* It slows for no one and nothing.
* Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, Verse 51, FitzGerald translation
The Problem With Captains
2 weeks ago