Trying to slow down the passage of time is about as futile as trying to pick up a greasy slice of daylight between your thumb and forefinger. More than impractical. Impossible to do. Hopelessly wanting. You measure the passage of time not with a clock or a calendar or a wristwatch, but with the proliferation of wrinkles on your face, the stealthy invasion of gray in the little hair that remains on top of your head, the increasing number of midget holes you must skip over on your belt in order to keep your trousers hitched up and still be able to breathe, and the tectonic ongoing shift occurring within your brain as pragmatism gradually replaces youthful idealism. Time ultimately changes us—Certainly not vice versa; not even a hint of that!—independent of any superhuman measures we may take to repel or even slow its surge. Time unfalteringly wins and human lives unfalteringly lose. There has never been a documented case of a draw in this long-running tournament.
Fred's Soapbox 