The real estate of time does nothing else but depreciate, dwindling down to a mysterious point in which a man disappears from this world. This is a fact and one of the very few objective truths a man can intimate to himself as a certainty. It lingers within his carnal instincts like a timer, counting down by the faintest of whispers. The more a man is in touch with himself, this reality, and the meaning it has on the value of his every next breath, the greater will his sense of urgency be to do and become something of worth within the time he is afforded. Society itself helps as much as it hinders in this regard, and so everything rests in a man’s capacity to be guided by a compass of discrimination within himself. Insofar as he is able to isolate and fortify his inner experience of life from a detached and impartial point of view — undisrupted and untainted by the blinding and deafening noise of society itself — will his fate be decided. The world is simply too loud and noisy, and its hypnosis upon the man who takes it all in without discrimination casts a spell upon his soul that makes them forget about time, mortality, and so the necessity to fan the flames of urgency.