Our ability to measure and apportion time affords an almost endless source of comfort.
"Synchronize watches at oh six hundred", says the infantry captain, and each of his huddled lieutenants finds a respite from fear in the act of bringing two tiny pointers into jeweled alignment while tons of heavy artillery go fluttering overhead: the prosaic, civilian-looking dial of the watch has restored, however briefly, an illusion of personal control. Good, it counsels, looking tidely up from the hairs and veins of each terribly vulnerable wrist; fine, so far, everything´s happening right on time.
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