You wake up one morning and realize that all the cliches about time are knifingly, crucifyingly true. It all goes so fast. Youth is wasted on the young. You're going to miss this.
It's one of the multitude of life's petty cruelties, that when you need to hear them -those hoary drumbeats about the value of your time, the consequences of your choices, the glory of now- you can't. And after they've clarified for you, sharpened for you, pinned you-
You're going to miss this. Parts of this. Imperfectly. Go.