Even if I do nothing but continue this minimal existence, I thought, time will keep moving past me. Even if I remain as immobile as a paperweight, time will still stack up the days and pin the receipts of all of them to me until I find myself with a thick wad of them in my forties, and a hefty pile in my sixties. I’m sure they’ll add up to something that feels weighty and satisfying, and that I’ll feel rich at the end—no matter how impoverished my days actually were, I thought, as I dried the dishes.
