Life is an old book, stiff leather on the outside, flexible pages within, smelling musty and wise, by some marvel having mutable type that shifts and migrates, letters swimming like schools of krill upon the page, stopping just long enough for the reader to catch snippets of poetry and prophecy. Each page forming momentary answers and riddles, flourishes of insight . . . but like with all books, the reader can only look on one page at a time.