In which the author makes no sense and doesn't even give a good god damn.
What makes you happy. What makes you get up in the morning, get out of bed, get dressed. What moves you forward, when lying down is easier. Makes your life interesting, makes your life worth living. What.
For me it's little things. I like to play with my dog, to drive. I love to write and spend time with my wife. The danger, I think, lies in anticipation. Nostalgia for things never seen, places that aren't, people we could never be and wouldn't like if we met in a bar. Looking forward and looking back are dangerous things.
Such a fucking sap. Be happy.