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Fifteen Minutes

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i need to stop spending all my time with younger boys, just because they still like their mothers and they still wear pants that are too short. i have found that fifteen minutes is the same as 900 seconds, and that 4.4 babies are born every second. meaning 3960 babies were born while i thought of all the boys i’ve ever kind of liked

and if we have any Honey left in our kitchen and how often i’ll be able to go scuba-diving when i grow up. Honey never expires, never goes bad. Honey has seen all the little boy ankles come and go, all the tears shed for love and for new breath and for all the wars and crime and tragedy. Honey is our greatest grandfather.

i have found that in fifteen minutes i can do nothing with my life but picture all the faces of everyone i’ve talked to in the last month and compile a grocery list for a time when i’ll need all the groceries on that list. i have found that i like to pace when i talk on the phone, and that in the last four minutes of fifteen minutes i can still be afraid of bees.

i have only seen the conversations of juveniles and heard the volumes of prepubescent enthusiasm and i wonder if the sun will ever turn my shoulders brown the way it used to and why i find the sliver of sock between the shoe and the end of size-too-small Levi’s so damn appealing.

how can i lose myself in only fifteen minutes? how can i place the face of everyone and yet speak to no one? how can i forget everything as soon as i step into the supermarket? how are 3960 mothers simultaneously able to cut a being from their bodies, release a whole new life from beneath them, while i shudder at a bee sting?

If my blood were Honey, would I ever have to die?




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