This is the sort of day where time has turned into molasses in winter in a drafty old cabin in the mountains. If eternity feels like this, the hereafter will be terrible, regardless of where I end up. The clock does not budge, the work is too trivial to make a satisfying impression, and the feed reader is empty.
The phone call is for someone else.
Time is not being particularly nice. Perhaps it has gotten jammed up in the neck of a multidimensional ketch-up bottle. It is clotted like blood on the back of Zimmerman's head. Maybe it is like weather- forecast for today is a sort of fog where time comes and just sits around in low lying areas, absolutely refusing to budge until next morning- and rudely leaves a thin film of residue over everything it touched.
I fail to see how anyone could imagine time has a direction. It is a directionless mass; it is less self-directed than a teenager. It will sit on the couch for hours, only to suddenly disappear precisely when you need it.