The older I get, the faster time seems to pass. Why is that, do you think? Is it because as the pile of minutes behind me grows, each new minute that arrives represents an ever-decreasing fraction of my life? When I was 10, the next year represented 10% of my life. When I was 50, it represented only 2%.

In the past, when I set something down to return to it later, “later” was only a few hours, maybe a day or two. Now it’s often a week or more. Yet the subjective feeling is that the same amount of time has passed.

Time remains a mystery.