A song comes on that you have not heard in years, and for a few minutes the drive is considerably better. You know more of the words than you expected. Some of them turn out to have been your own invention all along.
Then a thought arrives: it would be nice if you felt this way more often.
It would. But the thought can become a discussion about how to keep the feeling, why it has been missing, and whether a better few minutes means the whole week is turning around.
The song is still playing underneath all that discussion.
Good moments can be surprisingly easy to interrupt with their own evaluation. During a nice visit, you start worrying about how rarely you see each other. On a quiet evening, you wonder how long it will be before something goes wrong. Your attention moves from the thing you are enjoying to the problem of keeping it.
Those questions may matter. They do not all need an answer during this particular song.
An excellent ten-minute drive tells you something fairly limited: you enjoyed those ten minutes. It might happen during a hard week. Tomorrow may still be uncertain. The pleasure belongs to this bit of the drive, where the chorus has come around again and you finally remember the words.
Of course it will end. The song is about four minutes long. A good conversation ends, the weather changes, and the person who made you laugh may be mildly irritating again before dinner. Knowing that can make a pleasant moment seem fragile, as though you need to secure another one before this one runs out.
For now, though, you can hear the song. You can sing the wrong words, even the ones you now know are wrong. There will be time to think about the week when you get where you are going.