The Author leans back in his chair.
Through the deskside window he surveys the drooping boughs of a great forest-turned-winter wonderland, senses its silence deepening in pace with the falling snow. Lost so to enchantment, words not the Author's own spring to mind:
"Begin doing what you wish to do now. We are not living in eternity. We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand--and melting like a snowflake."
Not urgent, but aware, the Author turns from the window. If, like snowflake, this moment is to melt then post its crystalline passing will remain one page more.