I have a pretty good idea of the time. Our internal clocks are very, very ancient and keep us aware of about when it is in the day. And we have calendars all over the house and if I look at them I can see the month. But man, my natural state is to have no idea what day of the week it is, or the date of the month. The calendars don’t help. The one I am looking at right now has a mother bear and three baby bears and beneath them thirty one days, each day a perfect little square. I don’t think I am supposed to see the days as perfect little squares. They are supposed to be numbered concepts. But the concepts seem to be missing and I have to keep asking my wife what day it is or what the date is. It’s kind of blissful, actually, this timelessness, but I’ve never been a fan of bliss. I was never a bliss kind of guy. So it’s a struggle not to disappear into this blissful pit, this little brain damaged heaven up here in the hills of Silver Lake. It’s not a battle I am winning. The timeless bliss is unrelenting, like a tide that comes in and never goes out again. And to think there are people who do yoga with goats to get where I am.