Where does time go?
What do I do with time? Why isn’t time urging me not to be defeated by drowsiness and weave it into something productive? Is somnolence the enemy of time? Is it novelty?
Novelty is a fickle flower, withering at once into oblivion. It’s not even that beautiful shade of purple that you can’t catch with a camera. Do you remember the last interesting thing you clicked on and gave all your attention to for a few minutes? Neither do I.
Isn’t that alarming?