Everything else can wait.

Except time. Which, I assume, anyway, does not matter.

What matters, though, is a dream waiting to be dreamed. Day in and day out, through the struggles of everyday chores, what gets lost is not time, but the sense of being in that time. Somewhere in this din, the magic of a few quiet moments gets strangled. Railway lines, shiny and spiraling, a bustling crowd, moving in unison and oblivious to the individuals in it, a screeching halt, a mad rush, an android, a moment or two of condescension, submissiveness and complaints, and on, and on. Tireless hours without being true, tiring hours in afterthought. Somewhere, someone is lost. Somewhere the excitement of a dream is lost, the excitement of having dreamed one, and the restlessness after not having remembered one. Everything else can wait but a dream.

What matters though is a life waiting to be lived.