... Undifferentiated time is the worst. There are no more three-day-long days.

I tell Marguerite about three-day long days. The last one I remember was the summer before the last summer. We were having a dinner party and I had to get up early to mow the lawn before the bees were on the clover, and had to fix one of the wooden folding chairs so we’d have enough for everyone. You cleaned and I cooked. And after everyone had left, even though it was so late, we watched an episode of “Madame Secretary” in which the Dalai Lama’s death (pancreatic cancer) threatened to derail a climate accord between the US, Cheina, and India... Afterward, you kept me company outside while I had a cigarette. There was a nearly full moon that night. You said it looked pink and I said orange. You went up to bed and I washed a pan that had been forgotten outside by the grill. By the time I carried the cat up with me, you had turned out your light but  had left mine on and had filled my water glass. I worked on a crossword puzzle until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer.

There are no more three-day long days. That feeling of abundance depended not upon ecess and not scarcity, but finitude and a kind of thrift. It had to do with there being only so much time in the day but still more than just enough and using up every ounce of it, not wasting a moment. But to be undead is to be superfluous, perpetual. The moon is always full. We dream without sleeping. We refuse to return to the earth. Hunger is relentless.

Three-day long days. I love the end of a full day when I read in bed until my eyes get heavy.