Se vienen los 35 años, no son mucho....ni tan pocos, dependiendo desde donde se miren:


ICENHENGE (Kim Stanley Robinson)


"Yesterday was my birthday. I was sixty-two years old. One tenth of my life done and gone, the endless childhood over.
Those years feel like eternity in my head, and the thing is hardly begun. Hard to believe. I thought of the ancient stranger I had met on Titan, and wondered what it meant to live so unnaturally long, and then die anyway. What have we become?
When I am as old as that stranger, I will have forgotten these first sixty-two years and more. Or they will recede into depths of memory beyond the reach of recollection — the same as forgotten — recollection being a power inadequate to our new time scale. And how many other powers are like it?"

"Autobiography is now the necessary extension of memory. Five centuries from now I may live, but the I writing this will be nothing in his mind but a bare fact. I write this, then, for that stranger myself, so that he may know who he has been. I hope it will be enough. I am confident it will; my memory is strong."