Cycles and seasons abound all around and men, of no exception, chase their tails of troubles no matter how many years might pass them by. If time could halt for him and this river of seconds could stop its drippings, a man might be afforded a moment to account for himself and the cycles that surely repeat in eternal succession from the dusk of his life to its dawn. Time, left as it is, rolling as an unceasing wave of cause and effect, accident, and by the quirky hand of fate, leaves most of us with very little attention to spend on observing the portrait of ourselves as if by the eyes of a stranger. This currency of attention is ever diluted as it is attracted to every happening, existing now, or having existed in the past but still present in wandering thoughts. Men lose their daily fortune and sleep only to awake to the spendthrift of tomorrow. And they will not believe — and they will refuse to accept — that the anecdote is to simply save. They will look for windy routes, romantic answers, and a mystical journey, all for the sake of walking a circle back to where they started.