Tuesday proceeds into Wednesday.
    Time passes us all, Doctor… But perhaps it passes you slower than it does myself.

    After all, I have higher wind resistance, on account of being a fat and lazy American. More surface area, more resistance. I think you can show me the math, but I will remain content with the evidence presented by the increased temperature of my windward posterior.
    This increased drag accounts for my being 5 hours behind you on a good day. I think, perhaps, that now time is passing you slower than I.
    Is it Monday still, where you are?

    Monday was a good day for me, although not an exemplary day. Those don’t happen as often as they used to now that mortality bears down upon my ass. Even the best events are tempered with the knowledge that there are finite opportunities to reprise my successes.

    I remember hearing of my Grandfather in his last days, consuming stacks of books while he was able. Where did all that knowledge go? All that information he consumed from the library trips his soon-to-be widow made? Of what use was it to him?

    Hush, I know the answer as well as anyone. It kept the gears turning. It served as a distraction, amusement, and very likely succor.

    When I arrived at his bedside he was still breathing, snoring even. He was closing up shop, however. Liquidating his stock in consciousness and, ultimately, the furnaces of life darkened as I sat next to him listening to inappropriately cheerful music–Spike Jones and his City Slickers, if you must know. I had some half-baked idea that he might hear it and be cheered by its sounds.

    Time stopped that morning for him, but it accelerated incrementally for me.

    My daughter has risen to nearly four feet in as many years, and her blazing soul lights up my existence. It is still five hours earlier here than where you are, but it is 29 years earlier where she is, upstairs and sleeping with her chosen plush mascot.

    You know, we read a story book version of a Disney bastardization of a true story tonight. Pocahontas; an interesting and important true tale reduced by the colossal Mouse to caricatured depictions of beautiful people and anthropomorphic animals.
    No, she wasn’t a gorgeous 17 year old, 6 foot tall woman in a Wilma Flintstone costume, she was little more than a 13 year old child. Probably fat-bottomed.
    No, he wasn’t a gorgeous 20-something, 6 foot tall in pantaloons… OK, I’ll go as far as the pantaloons. But he was hardly heroic, and no warrior. Disney, was it necessary to rewrite an interesting truth into a ridiculously contrived fiction? What reason do you have for taking such liberties?

    We read the story and she concentrated on the page and on my voice, she listened to the words intently, and she crowded her warm little form against my side. Sam had heard this same story two days ago. And, although it was hardly worth the effort of doing so, she had memorized enough of the book on that night to correct me several times as I plowed through it this evening.
    ”No, Dad. It’s POWDER, not POWER.”
    ”Oh. You’re right. It says powder.”
    Later, I tucked her in, marveling again at the length and strength of her not-so-little arms as we hugged. As I retreat down the hall to join my Wife downstairs, Samantha calls out at the top of her lungs,
    ”Have a GOOD DAY!!”
    But the day is already over, Sam. And, for Doctor Maroon it will be starting anew in just a scant few hours. The conveyor belt of occupation is drawing unwelcome work towards me, and if I have any hope of assembling my future I will need my rest.
    It is 4:47am for you, but it is 13 minutes shy of midnight for me.

Welcome to Wednesday.