Fix was starting to see that this was the way life worked once you got older and the kids came; there wasn't as much time as you thought there was going to be.

We had invented time, and we could not kill it fast enough. After dinner, dancing, and baths, we read, wrote our poems and stories, brushed our teeth, and tumbled into bed, only to find the next day was exactly the same. We had not moved one inch forward in the night. It was like prison, not in the punishment but in the vast sameness of the days. We were impossibly rich in time, and we lavished the excess on one another.

...as if the world had become a giant train station in which everything was delayed until further notice.

They lived their lives only for the hour that lay ahead of them.