By Bernardo Bertolucci United Kingdom, Italy, 1990

-Tunner, we're not tourists. We're travelers.
-Oh. What's the difference?
-A tourist is someone who thinks about going home the moment they arrive, Tunner. Whereas a traveler might not come back at all.
-You mean I'm a tourist.
-Yes, Tunner, and I'm half and half.

Because neither Kit nor Port had ever lived a life of any kind of regularity, they both had made the fatal error of coming hazily to regard time as nonexistent. One year was like another. Eventually, everything would happen.

Because we don't know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that's so deeply that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps 20. And yet it all seems limitless.