There's a fuzzy line drawn in the sand in front of me. It's a line I've wanted to cross for some time now, and I stand before it, poised to make the shift ... and yet, for some reason, I cannot bring myself to pick my foot up and step onto the other side. A light breeze blows, and before long, the line will be no more for me to cross. I will be left standing again in the middle of a smooth, featureless beach.

If I stand there and draw the line behind me, I really haven't changed position, and I'm only fooling myself, aren't I? The point of stepping over the line is to shift where I am relative to the world and other things around me.

The breeze is neither good nor bad; it is simply the winds of time, blowing across the sands of time. The two constants that are forever changing, opening and closing doors for us to pass through, creating and erasing lines for us to cross.