Any configuration of life repeated is not lived but recollected. Repetition, at worst, is routine; at best, ritual. The former, unconscious; the latter, conscientious. Both, though, deprived of newness, are but Sisyphean uniformities. Time, though, learns a boredom, loathes the determinate succession, irks with uncalendared event, and yearns but for surprise to be – that natural conscience enlivened anew by change, by variety, by diversity. If nothing changes, nothing changes. Close one door, throw away the key, and never return. Another door awaits your opening. Go, now. What are you waiting for?