... the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

The presidential train sequence from Days of Heaven, found here. Hopefully the poetry is self explanatory.

Seriously, are we so fleeting? Why are we so fleeting? One of my coworkers disappeared yesterday, poof. Never to be seen again. It's all so mysterious and sad. She was half Wicked Witch of the West, half Glinda -- but now, clearly, entirely real and very fragile.

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