There is no escape from the slow and inscrutable march of time. The passing of the seasons, the withering of these corporeal chains, the replacing of old malls with newer malls: All things must begin and so must end. Or, as Lord Byron put it, "Time! On whose arbitrary wing the hours must flag or fly/Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, but drag or drive us on to die." Pretty much, Lord Byron, pretty much. And so let us take a moment for reflection, friends, for today we observe the end of... More >>>