Time has passed. Time is past. Time will pass. Time is a passing. A passage of time. Passed by time.
I’m not bad with languages. I can pick up enough to cover the basics, and get by. I don’t speak German, but I do have enough to buy a sausage or a pretzel. Actually, no: that’s a lie.
I don’t like sports. I never have. It just doesn’t grab me. It’s not any one sport that is the issue: I don’t get any of it.
If you got sent back in time to your own body as a teenager, still in full-on high school mode, what would you do?
Cloud engulfed us as we reached the top of the mountain. Elsewhere, all along both lakes, had bright blue skies; here was white-out. And we wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Ian Fleming’s James Bond stories never stood still. They experimented. The films don’t do that.
In the hands of fate lies a dilemma: would we ever be safe; could we ever survive; should we ever have come?