What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon?” cried Daisy, “and the day after that, and the next thirty years? - F. Scott Fitzgerald

He was going to live in New York, and be known at every restaurant and café, wearing a dress suit from early evening to early morning, sleeping away the dull hours of the forenoon.

For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened - then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.

It was always the becoming he dreamed of, never the being.