He hated the moment he knew the day was over. The sky had barely turned pink and the birds fell silent. Another day was gone. Every evening he clenched his fist against the setting sun so as not to count his regrets. He would pace his room, and beat his fist through the wall and against his chest, trying to still the ticking nestled, like an unbreakable egg, between his lungs. He wished for the day the sun would not set. The day he would never have to die. The day regret lost all meaning.