The time goes where you send it.

From Alfred’s journal

Switch spent the whole morning moving one acorn between three holes, and by noon he had nothing buried and a great deal done. I used to think of a day as a thing that drained, like water out of a cracked pot, and that the trick was to find the crack. But the pot has no crack. The time goes where you send it, and Switch had sent all of his to one acorn. I sat on the fence and watched him do it and did not tell him, because I had sent my morning to watching him, and who am I. There was a woman on the next street with a ladder against her gutter, up and down, up and down, and I do not know yet whether she got anything cleared either.