how is life defined code example
Example 1: what is life
<h1>Ten seconds can feel like an eternity. Relativity and all that.
When there are nine left to go you begin to wonder what could possibly come of it, what's the outcome going to be? It's so close yet it seems so far.
Eight seconds in is a squeeze of the hand for comfort, to silently say it will be alright if you just hold on.
After all, seven isn't much at all, it's only one away from six.
Five seconds left, nothing takes five seconds. Aside from four it's the shortest time frame in existence.
Three means it's almost here. You notice that you haven't been breathing but it's too late now.
Two and it's so close. In that moment you remember that all life is just a sequence of ones, adding up to minutes and hours and days and weeks and months and years.
Zero. I hold him in my hands, he's crying and so am I. Not the same tears. For him it's bright lights and noises and terror. For me it's a tiny little body in my hands, it seems so wrong.
I smile at him and hold her close as we gaze down into those little eyes. We tell him it's okay and he slowly goes quiet. He trusts our voices.
He holds my finger in a tiny hand and I couldn't be happier.
One second leads to another, adding up into a series of twos.
Suddenly he's running and playing and laughing, we're taking care of three exhausting children.
It's four in the morning and there are tears and sleep is a thing that we don't even remember. One day we'll look back at those years, remember the birthdays when they turned five, and wonder how they flew by so quickly.
Sixteen and it's a car in the driveway, seven days a week we live in fear of what might happen but we have to let them out into the world.
Eighteen and it's off to college, a kiss and a wave and I sit in an empty bedroom and cry.
Nine months and they're welcoming their own little ones and once again a little hand wraps my finger in a soft grip and I am theirs.
Ten days to wait for a medical diagnosis.
Nine months to live.
Eight grandchildren to visit and love and run with, seven days a week for an old grandpa that can't get enough.
Six months in and there's no more running and playing.
Nothing takes five seconds, aside from four it's the shortest time frame in existence.
Three minutes and I can feel it. Two more breaths until the end while one hand holds mine tightly.
Goodbye, I say. Then, all the time left to me...is
Zero.</h1>
Example 2: what is life
Coding is life.