"Now imagine you've won a contest, and your prize is that every morning a bank will open an account in your name containing eighty- six thousand four hundred dollars. And there are only two rules you must follow: The first rule is that everything you fail to spend is taken from you at night. You can't cheat, you can't switch the unspent money to another account: you can only spend it. But when you wake next morning, and every morning after that, the bank opens a new account for you, always eighty- six thousand four hundred dollars, for the day. Rule number two: the bank can break off the game without warning. It can tell you at any time it's over, that it's closing the account and there won't be another one. Now, what would you do?"

She answered, "We all have the magic bank account: it's time. A big account filled with fleeting seconds. Every morning when we wake up, our account for days is credited with eighty- six thousand four hundred seconds, and when we go to sleep at night, there's no carryover into the next day. What hasn't been lived during the day is lost; yesterday has vanished. Every morning the magic begins again, with a new line of credit of eighty- six thousand four hundred seconds/ And don't forget: we're still playing by that rule. The bank can close out account at any time without any warning. At any moment, life can end. So what do we do with out daily ration of eighty- six thousand four hundred seconds? Sit her and argue and worry? I beg you, Arthur, let's make the most of all seconds that we have left."