One Minute — Nine O’Clock

Quietful mystique — a feeling, perhaps mistaken — the moment I took for too long. The mystery of the soul and the brain. Brown eyes I was born with, a degree. Why aren't we free — a realm of questioning, reasoning about who is real? Are we?

I'm waiting in a café. I got dressed, thinking we might have had a talk. Shouldn't we? Am I next to the window, looking? Perhaps you could see me. For now, I'm looking for the old shop. It has always been there since I arrived in this city.

One minute — sixty seconds. Breathe. Quiet. Be calm. It might feel like a deep year. You would ask me, was it real? I couldn't blame you. I might be far from there. I might leave too; it can take only one second. You might be willing to catch me. I wouldn't ask if you could. I might catch you with a man. You might be lying. I must say, don't be harsh on yourself. We all have sins. As a quiet sinner, I spend my time drifting from mention to dimension. You would ask me about the year that we lived together. I might answer, it was only a minute, wasn't it?

One second. I didn't give you your last second. Perhaps you're enjoying your dinner.

And I might be smoking my cigarette. Was it me looking at the window? Am I in front of the old shop?

It took one minute to finish the cigarette. I must be late. It's nine o'clock. I should be at home, writing my unfinished novels or fragments

I'm not sure. Perhaps I would confirm my minute. The taxi arrived. I might be home now.