A second works fine for me as a second. A minute works as a minute. After all, they’re so short, what should we expect.
And a day works as a day. Long enough. At the end of one, I’m ready for it to be winding down.
But an hour, that’s where it breaks down. The hours never seem long enough. I expect more from my hours.
Perhaps that’s the problem–expectation. Or perhaps there are just not enough minutes in an hour.
Dante the wolfhound from Pam Houston’s Sight Hound:
In any case, wolfhounds don’t measure life
in terms of days and years,
because for a wolfhound,
every minute is right now,
and every minute lasts forever.