On this blog, there are 367 days in a year.
2012 was and a leap year, so that accounts for one extra day. But I do not know where this 367th day is from. I am at a loss.
I consider myself good at counting, so I will not attribute this magical, extra day to an inability to enumerate. At least not yet. That is too concerning a prospect. I have lost many things, most memorably a black glass marble that I had when I was very young, but I have not lost my mind.
So this concerns me. But not enough. Perhaps I have created my own kind of year. I am not a mathematician after all. So it does not particularly concern me that there are 367 days in a year of writing. Perhaps the world will catch up to me. And perhaps it will add a final day of rest. To breathe and reflect. To wrap up the things it needs to finish. Without concerning itself over trivial things like counting.
2012 was and a leap year, so that accounts for one extra day. But I do not know where this 367th day is from. I am at a loss.
I consider myself good at counting, so I will not attribute this magical, extra day to an inability to enumerate. At least not yet. That is too concerning a prospect. I have lost many things, most memorably a black glass marble that I had when I was very young, but I have not lost my mind.
So this concerns me. But not enough. Perhaps I have created my own kind of year. I am not a mathematician after all. So it does not particularly concern me that there are 367 days in a year of writing. Perhaps the world will catch up to me. And perhaps it will add a final day of rest. To breathe and reflect. To wrap up the things it needs to finish. Without concerning itself over trivial things like counting.
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