I sit under a bank of clocks at my desk. They are labeled with cities all over the world, with a lone clock stuck off to the side with an attorney's name on it. Sitting here, I am accutely aware of lost time. Sometimes the tick-tock of the clock reminds me of an iv, only this one working in reverse as I feel life draining away.
However, I think that Proust would be proud of me. When I'm not at work, I work diligently to regain lost time, to value the time that's [almost] my own. Perhaps my one fault in this regard is that I become slightly manic about doing as much as I can outside of work. Perhaps a fault of the whole undertaking is failing to satisfy the question "when is our time ever our own?"
One wonders, and hopes.
