Where does the time go?

I mean really, where does time go as you get older? I seem to remember great swathes of free time — bored time — when I was youthful: long gaping holes in the day that were impossible to fill up. Time to lie around musing. Now, no sooner have I finished one task than the next looms large, demanding attention, strumming its fingers with impatience. Work, leisure, being a parent: they're all overwhelming in their appetites for time. Books lie unread, films come and go at the cinema unseen, desultory thoughts go unthought. Is the internet the time-aspirating culprit?