I worry about not finding that perfect summer scarf until summer is over

I sit at my desk, done for the day but the clock indicates that I have twenty-two more minutes to go.

With a small bit of effort I can piss away fifteen minutes but not fifteen minutes plus seven.

Too early to leave, too late to start something new.

I wonder about writing.

I wonder about life.

I wonder about how many of those irretrievable minutes of living I have squandered.

There will be more minutes tomorrow, right?