Nobody sits down at nineteen with a pen and writes: By this age I'll be married, by this age I'll have children, I'll own a home, I'll have built something, I'll have travelled, I'll have figured out who I am. And yet, somehow, the picture exists. It's detailed. It has furniture in it. Faces, even. And because the future seems so enormous when we're young, there's no urgency about any of it. There's plenty of time. Until, strangely, there isn't.