Chance and fate hang in the air around me.
It’s Los Angeles; time isn’t reserved for only one person.
My fifteen minute break is someone else’s fifteen minutes of fame.
And their fifteen minutes is someone else’s time to go.
Last week we were in love. This week you’re in his t-shirt.
It doesn’t make me love you less – just less likely to love you later.
My mother called me from the hospital. She’s recovering.
Who knows how long that will take.
I have thirty-five minutes before I can climb behind the wheel.
Two weeks before I start a new job.
A month before I’m sitting at Dodger’s Stadium with one of
the most important men in my life.
When he was four his mother locked him in a closet for two days.
Ten years later, they ask me “what’s wrong with him?”
He’s the product of his raising, as only time could tell.
It’s taken me this long to realize that he is not the problem.
Sometimes we are to blame for looking the other way.
Justice is everyone’s responsibility, accepted by few.
They say he will be fine over time.
But time is only plentiful until you run out.