Urgency lives in the nudges. It's like a horcrux. Urgency isn't panic. It's respect for time and compounding. But it's also personal: I'm not racing others—I'm catching up to myself.

Why the sense of urgency? Maybe winning, maybe not. In the boat of myself there's no opponent, only wake. The rush explains my polyglot habits, the many hats, the no‑breadcrumbs life. Not sitting on my ass. The edge as the plane. The one last high—can you get a high off ideas? Almost but enough. The dripping pen, the lost lid, the empty book, the lost cover. Ink full of the anatomy of questions. A façade to hide the rich flex of ambitions. A heavy crown. A lost pen‑pal. The grief of hope. All of those are urgent—to recover from, to cover up, to get up from, to cope with, to run away with, to sit with.

So go get it. The world is an oyster; pearls vanish; find the coral. Discover the flora. Wipe the floor. Sit on a whale. Eat the shark, not the frog. Swim with yourself. Run toward yourself. Embrace yourself. That's the game—and the aim is to be free of the game, not to win it. Indulge the build, not the ego.

But keep it sober: urgency is a tempo, not a tantrum. Short clocks, small scopes, frequent proof. When God makes you face yourself, you feel the timer. Consciousness and intention are the only recipe that turns a plate into a meal. The plate thanks you when you act; the pen writes that.

I'm addicted to the mark left by ink but scared to highlight it. Yes, the pen is mightier than the sword—but only if there's ink. Spice must flow; so must ink. So must days.

Name the one move today that frees Future‑Me. Ship a smaller version in two hours. Replace "later" with a timestamp. Respect the ink: write it, date it, publish it.

Set a short fire and warm the room. Cut the scope and keep the promise. Let the tide of the Thames remind you: Seconds move—so must you. Move once, then again.