The calendar divides every hour with the same quiet confidence.
Living inside those hours feels less uniform. A conversation can make twenty minutes expansive. An afternoon spent switching between tasks can disappear without leaving much that we remember.
The clock remains useful. Trains should arrive when they say they will. But a day also has other measures: a meal prepared, a difficult paragraph understood, the moment a friend begins to speak more freely.
These things do not fit easily into a report of how time was used. They ask for a different kind of accounting, one that leaves room for attention and surprise.
In the evening, I try to remember one moment in detail. Sometimes that is how the day returns to me.
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