One should not stay up later than one should with one's thoughts as their sole confidant. Because then one writes this:
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You raise your kids, and every day is an eternity in meeting the mechanics of life. You trudge on, working to meet your familial needs, and giving your children some occasional profound statements, like you wish you could all the time. But it turns out that most of your life is spent on the motions of trying to keep the roofs over your heads, food channeled down their gullets, and keeping the cave heated.
And then they're grown. And you wonder where the time went, because all the things you wanted to tell them, all the cool stuff you imagined you'd introduce them to, all the matters of body, mind, and spirit that you'd wanted to imbue them with, are so much detritus strewn behind you on the path of life. You've de-escalated your hopes of forming them into modern superheroes and settled for daring to think that they are productive citizens and will stay out of jail.
And you're left to wonder one thing.
Where did the time go?
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Mental emesis over. Good night, friends.