And stare. Into that clock that ticks slowly, languidly into another ... second.
Into the colored calendar that moves after twenty four sometimes-waking hours of the day in which there are the sun and the moon acting like five year olds.
Not hurrying up when people want you to.
Or you look into the happiness of those who have bided their time. Paid their dues. Had their share of toil. You stare into what is inches away. In relative terms, moments away. Seconds away. Milliseconds away. Micromilliseconds away.
And there goes the second hand. It's only been one day since the last time you checked the calendar.
Waiting is hard because miniscule moments explode into eternity. It's like a process of reverse fission reaction.
In three days my cast comes off and I get my right hand back. I get to wash my face and scratch my chin without looking like a fool.
In three days I get my self-respect and my elbow back.
When the finish line's got a million dollars waiting for you the last few lunges are more desperate than the ones taken on somewhere in the middle.
But then again.
Maybe it's just me.
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