I think experience determines age. It's what we measure our lives in. Time is just markers and milestones we set for order and comfort when we surpass them. People die because they've lived too much, regardless of the years they've collected in the process. We often accumulate these defining experiences gradually and far-in between. We expect and embrace them. Although, more thrillingly, they also come in unrelenting cascades, as if out of some strange darkness from above. They're all-together terrifying and awe-invoking. They come as victories small and great, as well as tragedies, amendable and desecrating. They come enveloped in moments ordinary and seemingly unremarkable, as well as in the ones we know that breathing in won't feel like this by dawn the next morning. I think we live until our brittle bones start breaking and our little hearts give out under the weight of all we've seen and felt, whenever that might be. I think we live until we can't anymore. Time has shockingly little to do with it.