These days are precious because they die. They die and die. They pile on the floor. They trip us as we go to the future. None are immortal. None are forgiven for their crime of being mortal. Mortal days with thin wafting hours. The shear number of them make them forgettable.
There are a special few that we prop up in our calendars or for which we hang banners. It is only special to pin a corpse to the wall until the greasy blood starts molding. There is only one day alive. This day is the one that will make our lives better or worse. This is the day matters the most. If you don’t pay attention, it will die as a waste.