I constantly feel this feeling of impatience, of eagerness, of anxiety whenever I think about the next episode of my life. It baffles me so much that I am hardly satisfied by my present, that I am difficult to be impressed by what once was my future. Even though I am finally here, I can never truly be. I still look forward for a future, even when I am already in one. I question why I may never quench my everlasting thirst, and I answer, it may be because I look forward to when everything–when the trees die of dehydration, when the moon stops flaunting its ooze, when the sun decides to sleep forever, when history repeats itself–ends.