The endless false starts, the stacks of notes and years of daydreams, fantasies, of putting off action in favor of immediate pleasures or sloth, of living the dream and waking up in middle age.

The hunt for meaning beyond the confines of youth and within those of financial and emotional instability, favored only by seemingly endless good health, and thus the promise of a long, impoverished and increasingly bitter and irrelevant old age, unless another life is possible, even now.

The world turns and I turn with it, here until the end of my time.