A conversation.

I'm working on a novel. I'm superstitious about divulging information, but I'm not against posting little pieces I write - writing for the sole purpose of allowing myself to flesh out my characters. I meant this journal for things like this, anyway, didn't I?

"I hate being up past twelve every night. I hate it."
"What does that mean?"
"What?"
"Being up past twelve."
"Oh, great. Here you go again."
"What?"
"You're going to start in on some deep shit, aren't you?"
He looked at me. His smile was almost comical, but I could tell behind his quiet eyes that he was halfway serious. Then again, he always was half serious.
"What do you think I'm about to say?" He raised an eyebrow.
"I don't know. Something about the meaninglessness of time, or that my necessity for eight hours of sleep is all in my head. Something like that."
"What do you mean by time?"
"What do you mean, 'what do I mean'? I've been complaining about the hours I've worked all day."
"What's an hour?"
"We're just talking increments of time, here. It's not complicated."
"Increments?" He leaned back. Classic interrogation pose.
"Yeah. You know, for measuring."
"Increments of time meant for measuring. For measuring what?"
"I don't know. Time."
He must of seen the look on my face, because he laughed.
"Time measures time, does it?"
"Okay, Socrates, if you have any theories, just lay them all out for me."
He just smiled. It took him awhile, but then he spoke.
"If time didn't exist for you, would you still be worried about how long it would take you to learn from your mistakes?"