...So are the days of our lives.

It's weird. When I was younger, a year used to seem like such a long time. And for good reason, I suppose; when I was five, one year was 20% of my life. But now, one year is just about 4% of my life. One day is barely over one hundredth of one percent. Holy shit!

Now why should I feel any sense of responsibility toward a period of my life that constitutes a trifling hundredth of a percent?

And yet, when I look back on these 295 months I have lived, I can say that a cumulative 1% of my life has bore the most significant impact. That one percent did not come in one lump sum, but in bits and pieces: a conversation, a small gesture here and there, a chapter from a book -- fractions coming in tenths, hundreds, thousandths, billionths, added together -- microscopic golden epiphanies, embroidered into a quilt of giddy sloth.

I want golden embroidery to equate to more than one percent of my quilt. And yet with each passing day, the quilt helplessly expands, and the same quantity of golden thread that was once one percent is now becoming a smaller and smaller proportion.

One hundredth of a percent does matter. And I'm going to start living like it does. Dammit.