A couple months ago, I caught a bus that was due to connect to another route I needed about 16 minutes from the time I got on. So during the ride, instead of watching my clock, I decided to count the minutes, one second at a time, until I got to the connecting busstop. As I counted, my mind wandered in its attention to the numbers I recited. My focus would return and depart, as the physical act of saying the numbers became mechanical and numb. I continued counting, but the passing digits dropped into periphery, my thoughts shifting from the regular pulse of the count, to clouds of shapeless memory with no measure. My body creating noises, with regular rhythms, using a language, taking a measurement. My body is imprecise, my thoughts are not sequential. The clock runs through my body and distorts, filtered through subjectivity and anatomy. I repeat the same seconds to arrive at different minutes. But those will repeat as well. Three eighteen in the afternoon today has no connection to three eighteen in the afternoon tomorrow. The numbers fade, my tongue and mouth and memory derail from the framework. There is no measure of the moment to moment, only a destination. And when this place is reached, the distance traveled seems to change. I can tell you that it took 15 minutes, but what does this mean to you and me? Is it an agreement? For the moment that we meet and speak about time, we both place our subjective amorphous time periods onto the agreed, gridded table in order to reach understanding. And we do, and the bus arrives, and the count finishes, and life resolves and fits.