Gathering firewood, he wandered up into the clouds,
where two old immortals played chess through the idle years.
His axe-handle rotted away before he thought of home —
seven days in the mountains, a thousand years in the world.
Something absorbing is eating time invisibly: the feed, the game, the "quick check." The mountain was lovely; the century was real. Set the boundary around absorbing hours before the calendar rusts — the world moved while you watched the board.
Read presence literally: in the room but scrolling is absence — one board game on the mountain, a century gone at home. The fortune buys the hour back before the axe handle rots.
Attention is the scarcest asset: the hours-to-income of the best offer deserves the audit. Something lovely is invisibly eating what everything else is priced in.
The market shifted during the comfortable stretch — one monthly afternoon of reskilling keeps the axe edge. The world moved while the board was watched.
Timebox the absorbing thing today — one timer, one hard stop — and spend the reclaimed hour on the real.
