Everything is transience.
We are the weavers that work the loom; weave the cloth of our vision - our universe.
Nothing is transience.
All that is, is a myriad of universes. A compendium of short-stories or of epics.
Everything is transience.
We are the authors of this clustering, and the mirrors reflect us and write the story in which we are only background characters.
Nothing is transience.
And in all of this, the moment is an infinity. Entropy, twisting around; the Oroborus connecting end to beginning so that all is nothing but this single, infantisimal moment.
Everything is transience.
The grains of sand are everlasting, ever-shifting light...the living of all is timeless.
Nothing is transience.
We have lived every breath already. We have died and come out again. We are. We all.
Everything is transience.