“Time Conquers All”, in Latin. A pithy little meditation on the transience of this vale of tears, paradoxically immortalized by being phrased in a dead language.
My pal Pete found it written on the bottom of a half empty beer can around closing time at the local beer garden, as we basked in Wisconsin’s recent and unusually mild late March weather. Or rather, I suggested he’d find it there.
I told him it was the lucky password the bar’s owner had written on the bottom of a randomly selected can as part of a free promotional giveaway contest. Turns out in actuality there was only an expiration date written there. And by the time he’d flipped the can over to read, it was completely emptied. Mostly onto Pete himself.
I laughed, but the barkeep seemed a little annoyed, as some of the beer had spilled on other patrons who didn’t quite get the joke. We took that as our cue to skee-daddle and started off on our walk down the hill back to my shack to sleep off our hangovers. It’s a bit of a trek, and the pleasant mellow glow of the country moonlight put us in a contemplative mood, so we had a good chat on the way. Some of it seemed pretty profound, worth sharing with a wider audience, so I decided to recount a bit of it here.
“What the fc*k was that “Tanta Alea Vexat” sh*t about, then?” sez Pete.
Read the rest of this perplexing perigrination at Dystopia Diaries