The liquid-eyed poet John Keats, dead at 25 from tuberculosis: “There is nothing stable in the world; uproar’s your only music.” In the same vein, from an old hymn often sung at funerals I presided over when I was in religious life: “Time, like an ever-rolling stream, / Bears all its sons away; / They fly forgotten, as a dream / Dies at the opening day.” No-one and nothing stay the same. Not even for an instant.
So then, how to tell the difference between the true and the false, the real and the unreal? Whatever has a beginning and an end is false. All else is true. From A Course in Miracles: “Nothing real can be threatened. Nothing unreal exists.”