![]() ![]() Your object, her object, all of our objects, was to mold and print ourselves on those single fits of future that, in the touching, aged into swiftly into vanishing yesterdays. If you did not seize without holding, shape without breaking, that continuity of moments, you left nothing behind. Instant by instant, tomorrow blinked in your grasp. Ray Bradbury (August 22, 1920June 5, 2012) was an American writer who specialized in genre fiction. You had a single instant, as it flashed by, to change it into an amiable, recognizable, and decent past. It was no different, she said, than life itself. I had once heard her on a radio show describe herself as a snake charmer.Īll that film whistling through her hands, sliding through her fingers, undulant and swift.Īll that time passing, but to pass and repass again. ![]() ![]() Prim, quiet lady, like an upright piano, seeming taller than she was because of the way she sat, rose and walked, and the way she held her hands in her lap and the way she coifed her hair up on top of her head, in some fashion out of World War I. ![]()
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