…time's winged chariot hurrying near.
I had a bit of a shock today: a call from the office of a doctor whom I'm supposed to see once a year for a heart exam telling me it's time to come in again. I started to argue that it had only been six months, or maybe at most eight, since my last visit. I really pretty much believed that to be the case, and the only reason I didn't argue was that in recent years I have had too many experiences in which I grossly underestimated how much time had passed since some event.
This is becoming somewhat disturbing. It's not that I'm afraid of getting to the end of life–I dread some of the possible difficulties of old age more than I fear death (but ask me about that again if I live another fifteen years or so). It's that I feel that I have so much more work to do, and that time is running out. It's like being in school and getting close to the end of a term without having started that big paper that was assigned in the first week.
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