When this is over, when everything is said and done and finished, tied up in brown paper parcels with white-corded string, well then you will have time for regret. Then you can look back sorrowfully. Now.
Now, you must drive on, crack your whip, tuck your sleeping children into their beds, tell your wife it’s Now or Never, and maybe Never sounds like a better proposition in the long run, but Now is here, Now is glaring at you straight in the pupil, loud and long and ugly and about to run away.
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