What do we do with the time?

What do we do with the memories?
Time flies by.
We're just a glimpse.
I glimpse of self-proclaimed glory.

We are nothing but static.

But we are everything.
This life is one of which one can certainly not be certain.
To grasp the concept is to be completely befuddled by it.

What is this, compared to all that?
I remember your face.
I remember this place.
The smell lingers and I recall.
But the walls have changed.
All has been rearranged.

Home? Call me quickly.
For even life is declared deadly.