But inasmuch as that light is loaned And, insofar as we've borrowed bones

As we increasingly lose third spaces, we lose parts of who we are.

One day, everything we love will just be a memory.

Places like this increasingly cease to exist.

I don't want modern, I want this.

I always ask myself, did I love them enough?

Did I  go here often enough? Did I buy enough pies? Did I take enough people here? Did I spend enough money here? Did I spend enough time with my grandma? Should I have gone on vacation that year when I could have spent more time with Beatrice? Did I take enough photos of everything? Was it enough? Did I do enough?

Was I enough?