Got twenty minutes. 

I don't have anything to say, really, though I'm drowning in words.  A hopeless sea of words, a complex matrix of emotions, ideas, and fears; a crowd of crimes and innocences, all rubbing shoulders like disagreeable relatives at a wake.  And of all possibilities, I am the only one I can do anything about.  Of all the potential, random events—the chaos in this meta-world, the tiny streams of tense laughter slithering between dark masses of fear, the stones of anger blithely cast up by the torment—I am the only thing I can do anything about. 

Ten minutes left.  That's the only thing we can be sure of—the end.  But what of bosom-bursting joy?  What of the absolute comfort of requited love?  And what of the dark infinities of disappointment, heart-break, and injuries that surpass the limits of our flesh?  Anything is possible. 

Out of time. 

Have you ever killed a beautiful thing?  Ever stepped on a perfect blade of grass?  Ever wasted a friend, just because you didn't think you could?  Or just because you didn't think?  Did you ever kill a bug?  A wonderfully made complexity of nature, a miracle among miracles?  I have. 

The temptation is to focus down, "where did it go?, what is it doing?"  I am big, I occupy all the space of my stuff, my house, my workplace.  My friends?  I have to know where this little bug has gone.  I can't let it get away with whatever it wants.  Can I?  I am as little as a bug.  Or, I am as big as the universe. 

Or both.