The minutes of the hour, day, week, year, decade, lifetime . . .  
grains of sand slipping too quickly through a hand trying desperately to hold on.

For what purpose?
To fling into the eyes of our enemy?
To add to a castle that will wash away in the tides?
To feel like we've got some semblance of a grip on this intangible thing called life?

We're all just holding on to a fistful of nothing,
and we're holding on too tight.