As I stepped off the platform at King's Cross Station, the year's numbers painted on tiles stung my eyes: 1925. Adjusting my hat against the early autumn chill, I remembered the banker I was to meet. Theodore Blake, he said, was a man grounded by principles, even if those principles had recently become flexible thanks to some obscure temporal anomaly.
The conversation spiraled around the coffee-stained desk of his London office, much like a fugue dancing through unrelated, yet harmonized, melodies. "The law," he mused, "has always been a curious companion to time." I nodded as if to agree, though inwardly, I dismissed the thought. Laws forged with such deliberation shouldn’t bend so easily, should they?
Explore further regulationsOn another occasion, perhaps in the canon of time that comes fourth after the recess of a school day in 1965, I encountered Alice in a dusty library bursting with the scent of old paper and picturing futures unfettered by time. She murmured over pirouetting legal texts, her voice a soft rhythm against the brazen hum of an air conditioner.
“Some say law is a melody in search of harmony,” she said, a child clutching a toy saxophone while debating Bach’s fugues. To her, I whispered the secret hopes that such harmonies eclipse boundaries crafted by fragile human hands. She smiled, though her eyes weren’t quite there. Were any of us, really?
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