Time is of no meaning to a prisoner serving his life sentence in a dark dungeon. Its this meaninglessness of time which is the greatest comfort to the convict. Why should I hang the burden of time on my wrist and measure my freedom and happiness to a limit? A better choice would be to track it from meal to meal. In other sense operate from the gut.
The bumpy ride is behind now; travails of the three tier sleeping system with almost transparent restrooms and the snoring from unexpected throats seem to hog the headlines of conversation. The whistle blower announces the meat on the table. Like monks we all troop in with plates in our hand. The taste of food leaps on to the lips and sends warmth all over. The smiles appear and the hot cuppa unties the chords of solemnity and its all normal like office time.