A Lonely Man and His Watch

A day was nothing special. It came and went without any trace of evidence that it ever happened, apart from the successive number and its corresponding name on the calendar that seemingly distinguished itself. The accumulation implied a sense of direction that was absent. Time was something that bothered him, because it made him conscious of the bad days he wasted and the good days that evaporated so hastily. It often made participating in ordinarily enjoyable things difficult, for there was always the fear that loomed of its inevitable dissipation, and the ensuing interval spent conjuring the next step in a continuum.