Five Minutes From Now

I ordered dinner

and started thinking about breakfast.

Bought the thing I wanted,

opened the box, and halfway through

wondered what the better one costs.

That's probably not healthy.

I finish something—

my brain says, “Next.”

I get somewhere— “What's after this?”

Good news lasts thirty seconds before I start renegotiating with it.

Five minutes from now.

That's where I fucking live.

Not yesterday.

Barely today.

Five minutes from now.

What's next? (next?) What's next?

(next?) What's next? (next?)

Somebody says,

“Enjoy the moment.” Which one?

This one already happened

while you were saying that.

I can turn anything into a waiting room.

Friday night? Waiting for Saturday.

Hundred thousand? Waiting for two.

Finish the song?

Naming the next one before this one dies.

See? That.

Exactly that.

Sometimes I wonder

if everything arrived at once— Money.

Time.

The place. The freedom.

The impossible shit.

Would I finally sit down?

...probably rearrange the furniture.

Five minutes from now,

there's always something waiting.

Another number, another idea,

another thing worth chasing.

Five minutes from now

is a convincing salesman.

Keeps whispering:

“You're almost there.” (where?)

Never says where “there” is.

I want quiet— for eleven seconds.

I want freedom—

so I can fill it with work.

I want time— so I can immediately spend it.

I want enough—

Actually...

I don't know what that means.

Maybe I don't want a finish line.

Maybe I like

acceleration.

Maybe what I'm chasing

isn't waiting at the end.

Maybe I like that little moment when an idea walks into the

room

and everything else shuts up.

Five minutes from now I might think of something brilliant.

Five minutes from now

I might throw this away.

Could ruin the plan,

save the night, change absolutely nothing— I still wanna see it.

There you are.

Not yet.

Almost. Wait— I just thought of something.