Some moments in life last longer than others. As if God plays tricks with our clocks while neglecting to pay the same service to our minds. Some seconds last days. Some days last years. Some last no time at all. As if the pages of history, being written in real-time by a celestial author, got raspberry yogurt spilled on them, and they stuck together. And now they kind of smell funny. You’d think the writers would have better etiquette. High and mighty, literally. But they’re slobs. Look around you. Slobs. And that’s why some moments smell so bad. That’s the decomposing crumbs of a heavenly bargain bucket, scratching grease onto the pages of your story. No respect at all.