What does it even matter?
Midnight, Noon, Three-Thirty, Twenty-Four-Hundred.
Who cares?
Life is measured in time, but time is measured in ache. In sweat. In pure, bittersweet, kick-yourself-in-the-ass fashion.
What makes us drive so hard to hit deadlines, to be places at certain times, to keep age as a number? In a word it must be control. In a world that is so lost, it gives one a sense of comfort to believe in time. In a Creator. In a Master Leader. Wherever.
The things we do to measure time, the lengths we go to in creating an accurate calendar, I think all are begging to answer the one question:
When will the time run out?
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