We know we are mortal — and still we live as if it were about other people. Someone else's diagnosis, someone else's funeral: deep down a person is sure this will not happen to him. This is the influence of avidyā: "everyone can die, but not me." Rome was soberer. The victor was driven through the city, the crowd roaring his glory — and on the same chariot stood a servant whose only job was to repeat into his ear: memento mori, remember, you will die. It did not spoil the triumph: it gave the man back the ground under his feet. Where bhāva has appeared in the heart, that sobriety grows into avyartha-kālatvam: there every second is guarded. We scatter time by the handful while the river runs as fast.