Time is a clock with months not numbers—January where the 12 should be—running counter-clockwise. January, February, and March are spaced evenly, as are September through December; but April, May, and the summer months always become distorted, oddly blurry and rushed, like they’re slipping towards the 6 where June should be, but it always seems to be August.
Time is a rotary phone. When I try to remember what year we did this and what year we did that, I dial the years back with my finger.
Time is a sense of direction. Just as I know which way is north, days neither feel too long or short. The years are not slipping away any more than the planet’s poles are shifting (and yet they are). “How quickly the the weekend went,” is only a Monday-morning nicety—or a metaphor. It does not fly. It does not drag. Time is a line on a map.