Timeless

In the vacuum of deep, empty outer space, vast beyond imagining, is the passage of time a meaningless concept, an unnecessary artificial imposition designed to infer order where there is none? 
Does time exist without our observation, without someone to witness and measure its passage, or is time irrelevant, merely a convenient construct, a dependant property of life? 

According to Shakespeare (Macbeth act 2, scene 4) and the Bible (Psalms 90), three-score years and ten is our allotted time. 
And, surprisingly, these unscientific, unsubstantiated declarations of life expectancy are pretty much spot-on, according to the United Nations World Population Prospects.

I am comfortable with these findings - having already racked-up a few bonus years - although my bonus years, according to the laws of statistics, come at the cost of some other poor bastard's loss. (Sorry, mate. My bad.)

But finite measurements are just that. Finite.
And as I ponder the timelessness of my inevitable eventual birthday-less future, I am comforted by the fact that, after the pleasure of the company of my beautiful wife for more than 50 years, and with the never-ending delight of having fathered five beautiful, clever daughters, one of each day's favourite moments is the prospect of peaceful sleep at its ending. 

I choose to regard this as training for the main event.

I am content with that.

                                                                Training for the main event.