Tu ne peux pas t'inquiéter sur la plage.

[ He folds his arms behind his head on his terrible bed. The man he's pretending to be is important enough to have a room, but not a good one. ]

I think the heart grows fonder because it forgets. And when it forgets, the imperfections and the annoyances go first. Or maybe memory turns them into something charming the way it could not if you were still enduring them. Like polishing a stone. It becomes smoother and more perfect. And smaller. And less real.