The last years of youth are a stretch of empty time, an open white desert. plant this barenness with seeds until it flourishes.
Transform it into pastoral fields, acres of roses, or cities of lightning-blue towers, as long as you transform. Do not succumb to the sins of nihilism, apathy, isolation.
You can lie alone on the sand and stretch under the sun, but if at the end of the light, you count the time and it adds up to little that can sustain you during the cold, hard,
fresh blue challenges of the oncoming adult world, you have misunderstood the task of youth.