Sheets of paper lay on a desk and a pen lays beside them. Letters that needed to be written, that now never will. Weeds grow in a garden, but they will not be pulled up. Dust has collected on a window seal, but it will not be wiped off. Many a mundane thing shall be left undone. Time has become short and what seemed important no longer is. In a worn-out pair of shoes, I have Journeys that I must make. I'm not sure that I will finish them, I do not know how much time it will take. Instead of sitting idly in a rocking chair, I now must hurry up. The sun will soon be setting, and I'm not sure that's time enough. To reconcile certain things, to mend fences and quell strife. The things for which I thought there was enough time, now may just be part of an unfinished Life.