There's a John Updike poem called "Furniture" which begins:
To things we are ghosts
Soft shapes in their blindness which push and pull
A warm touch tugging on a stuck drawer...
I can't remember the rest (except the last two lines, which are "his life a blur/A dark smear on the unchanging stone" - about Victorian daguerreotypes, which captured the still better than the moving because of the length of the exposure time), and I can't find it anywhere (I think Mr Updike or his publishers must pursue breach of copyright with alacrity). But it came into my mind when I was thinking about impermanence. And "life's too short", or something like it.