The past is so pointless, isn’t it, and telling a story of failure even worse? That search for the ‘truth’ of the failed moment, the day energy vanished inside itself, the day you didn’t kiss the girl, get the job, get on a plane, win the match, is as impossible as time itself. Only fiction can encompass some whole, and the rest is perception only from one dwindling, darkening perspective, travelling away from the centre of the Universe at the most phenomenal speed. Eeeeeeeeeek, not waving but drowning! Beware of the Sliding Door moments for yourself, sure, but on the other hand, living in constant fear of them too is also impossible. Just get it right, or slightly righter.