Time is not a blanket

I've tried to make it into one. Thinking I can wrap it around myself and relax into its folds. Oh, I've got three hours, I'll say. I imagine the things I'll do. I see me doing them with ease and comfort with such an abundance of minutes, like an abundance of well-milled yardage . But the comfort never materializes. Time is not a stretchy fabric. There are no soft folds to sink into. I reach for it and it dissipates like smoke, dark acrid smoke, the kind that tells you you're burning daylight.

So I'm giving up on time. I won't ask for more of it or hope I have enough of it. Because I won't. I won't have enough of it, so why bother?  Why count something you will always run short of?