and he wonders when this dream will end. he wonders if it's actually a dream, or just a particularly persistent fragment of a memory. "all is made to thrill," he thinks, "smiles are fleeting and beauty is still." and still, even if it'd all been done before, who wouldn't give their whole life to do it all again? but he knows there's no time. the summer is already up and running and we're so tired and they're all so disappointed. people make promises that break all the time. although there's an assurance in assuming, at times he missed the simple comforts of being sad.