There was still time to be who he’d always been, again. As a kid, dreaming, it had seemed impossible to be satisfied with only one life. As an adult, indebted, afraid that what he loved and whom he loved would one day cost him more than he could afford, it had seemed impossible not to protect himself with money. But he didn’t have to be all one thing or all another. He didn’t have to live only one life at a time. And a living wasn’t something you made but something you did. Again and again, over and over, always, always becoming.
