A minute ago, the world was alright without you. You weren’t so important; your existence didn’t make the world go round, one minute ago.
A minute passes by, and the laughter ceases as the future sinks in; many possible futures, with only one, in the end, being what the future will and may be. A minute after, the laughter echo dies on the breeze, in the mind, and in the memory.
A minute away, and the body stretches out, playing dead under the trees and on the cold ground of forbidden imagination. The minute slips out of the cold, stiff hands, and drifts away, with dry, dead eyes following, and streaming dry tears.
The past minute is like a second of possibility, a day of forgotten days, a year of lost weeks, a lifetime of years wasted in actions that hardly matter anymore; the past minute is like an age and a day of a thousand wasted lifetimes, like the fallen leaves which were once green, and are now brown, and will soon seep into the earth and become nothing.
The past minute is the nothing that all minutes will soon become, all the minutes spent without you, because without you, the world stays still, helpless, afraid to live.