Finite Numbers

Last night, I wrote the entry below and learned this morning that my father died. Life fools us. It's a magician's trick, a slight of hand:

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Each of us has a finite number of hours – breathes.
When someone invites us to share hours, and we decline, the hours are lost.
That is all. Those hours will not pass again.
This life isn’t ours to keep
It might now even be too late for human kind;
Kind – kindness – milk of human kindness

What is it like to live in a cage?
Literally – crippled by impairment or emotional –
Is it where we all live, until we die?