"Life is what you think is waiting for you outside that front door, crying ‘use me’, but you can’t, not yet, not now, because you’re broke, you’re broken, you’re busy, you haven’t graduated, you can’t get the time from work, you can’t get the time at all. Life is not out that front door, waiting, it is in the room, it is the ache in your hand that you get when you write; it is the clothes you put on before you go to work; it is the boy or the girl that you loved, or you still love, or who loved you, and it is not waiting. It slides by in the seconds, as the earth moves around the sun. It slides by in the minutes, the days, the weeks, like the lost dream buried beneath a lament. It slides by in the months, as silent as the exhalation of spring; the coming of autumn, when the trees shrug off their green raiment for a cloak of red. It slids by and all you can think about is living it, well, look now, look up, you already are."