The Last Second

Time running short. How does it do that? 4461 and counting. Seems like a lot. Doff the hat, snatch the satchel, and off to work again. Days, hours, heartbeats? Is time shorter at the end, like the fuse of a cartoon bomb tossed by a cat at a mouse, or the otherwise round? Roundabouts require too much attention on my part, estimating, anticipating, expecting the worst from people, ready for them to change their mind at the last second, continuing on around the circle, occupying the space intended for you. Which one is last? Does it stand ready to accept the blame? Stand then, you soldiers of time, dominos awaiting your order to lean one way or the other to cause the chain reaction of events resulting in, what? the end? Another beginning? The screech of rubber tires announces the satisfying crunch of bumpers, the shattering of glass.

Roundabout

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