I am still a can with a hole in it. But I am grateful as I should be for this quiet slow life, for this house and education that I am renting with borrowed money, for the café that will let you write in the dark while California floods outside. If philosophy does (or ought to) consist in assembling reminders for a particular purpose (and I like that working definition as well as any), then the most needed of those reminders would be that there is no being separate from becoming. I tell myself this ten times a day, and still I constantly forget it. It is so easy to think that once my book is done, once my education is done, once some unspecified quantity of money drops from some unspecified celestial treasury, then I will have reached a point of stasis. But that point of stasis will contain only the same sun and coffee that are here now. And now I am young.