I suppose even the busiest people find themselves alone at times—walking to their car, opening a door, taking out the trash—and they glimpse an honest reflection of themselves—transitory, insignificant, unprotected—before rushing to hide beneath responsibilities, overcoats, and routines.
I wonder if I should be anxious about the passage of time? I suppose every second that passes carries me closer to death, and I should try to fill every second with as much life as possible. But you can only fill what was empty to begin with, so first, I should try to make every second as empty as possible.