In an hour, I'll yearn for this moment. It happens to me all the time; it's like receiving nostalgia in advance. Only when it happens—and that makes it unattainable, nonreturnable—will I value this present I find myself in now. I'll think with melancholy, I'll romanticize it, even though I'm in a hurry now and it seems dull. I'll tell myself that I didn't savor it, that I should have enjoyed it more, and that I wasn't aware of it when I still had time. And then it will all be memory and regret. A heavy burden that makes you fear that, in the end, the balance of it all will be that I didn't live long enough.