Sometimes I make my bed at 3pm only to unmake it several hours later.
Seems foolish, but there is fulfillment in the unfolding of sheets regardless of how many hours it was tidy.
My bedside clock tells the wrong time - typically a differential of 17 minutes. I know this, but there's something addictive about subtracting minutes.
The number 12 appears to me in several forms throughout the day and I'm convinced it's a spirit angel whispering "I love you's" upon a glance, begging me to pause and take a deep breath.
And yet everyday, we try so very hard to make sense of time, and the meaning of its construct. We attempt to justify routines, the past, the pauses... But time is not responsible for any of these. We are.