I dither my time away. I do nothing for stretches — that’s the best way to explain it — I can’t for the life of me remember where the time went. How many years will it be, when the moments are all counted at the end of this life, the sum total of my wasting time? No, not practicing patience, for I wait not for anything at all, barely paying attention to the TV or the internet or the radio, letting my mind drift off in worthless worry… and all I do is age. I take a few minutes to jot this down, but I know I will go back to it, as soon as I am done here: let the day slip by, with nary a fingerprint on it to say that I was there. And always, always, conceive that tomorrow will bring with it some mysterious diligence, some change will happen upon my waking the next morning. Sigh. I think I will go and look in the mirror. The last time I checked, I was a pimply faced teenager; it couldn’t have been that long, could it?