How is it that the summer can pass so quickly, and that you are not as glad about it as you thought you would be--being that summer is not your favorite time of year, with the heat and the boredom despite open-ended possibilities and expansive freedom and etc., etc.--but instead frustrated with the speed that it is falling away from you and there is so much left to do, all your plans and goals and such; the exceedingly long list of itinerary still looms large and ominous above you, and all you can do is wallow in self-pity about how fast time and the world passes you by and there is always so much to do, to accomplish, structures to ascend into the sky and monuments to erect to last forever, or really until dust and decay gets the better of them and everything else as always; still as always there is the lament, the cry, the time-worn soliloquy of life being too short and time running forever ahead of you, summer only a dream winter has elegizing spring, both a memory time has lost while you were bemoaning your fragile state and your precarious position of being alive and breathing, enjoying such a thing as summer? Really, how is that?
