Years ago I noticed that time flies when I write. It is a matter of concentration, I guess. Having finished writing something or other, I am often surprised at the time. It is typically much later than I have thought. The real surprise is that writing keeps surprising me in this respect. That is, the awareness that time flies as I write does not help a single bit in my judgment of time while I write. Which brings me to a simple hypothesis about my fondness for writing: I am whiling away not only my time but my life, as well. Not a bad hypothesis, this. It is hard to test, but it at least offers some food for thought. And yet another wonderful opportunity to write, of course. Oops, what time is it?!