As one gets older, one remarks how time speeds up and yet one finds oneself increasingly struggling against the tides of fate and circumstance that wash one hither and thither. So much to do and so little time in which to accomplish it. The summer days which in youth seemed heady and eternal now march past almost before one has had time to spare a moment to dawdle in the sunlit streets and pastures.
One finds that those rituals and markers with which ones notes the passing of the years seem closer together, inorexably collapsing into one another and drawing ever nearer to that final, eternal stone marker which awaits us every one. What I'm trying to say is that the new Viz is out before I finished the last one. Fucking hell.
The perceived length of a particular passage of time is measured locally as a proportion of memory accumulated thus far. Though of course, when approaching the 'Viz' singularity, these laws break down; which is why Victorian Dad is still, and will forever continue to be, proper funny.
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