When we are young we only hear the sharps and the flats, and the melody is lost on us. We know only of the crushing beat, that compels us to dance, and the flute that plays the constant tune behind — we miss. The fine grain patterns of the asphalt road: how many of us saw more than its gray average before our eyes began to discern true detail? True, the sweet was sweeter, at least, that is how we imagine things were; but the subtleties were swallowed in the sloppy mix of all experience. Youth may be wasted on the young, but sometimes, one imagines that we are at the age we deserve. That rewards are not so plain, blunt, and sugary — that ecstasy is not how we measure all pleasure. The years are kinder than we think, if we think not of it all only to complain, if we imagine the best is still with us, and to come.