3 a.m.

I guess we'll have to get you a Taser too.” Meow. “No, I'm not getting you a knife.” Meow. “We'll discuss this when I get back.

Receding gray hair running as fast as possible away from a big shiny forehead. A

possibly already having undergone my first round of sodomy.

And you took the cat?” he says with a belly laugh. “You hate cats.”“I couldn't leave him there. And he thinks he's a dog, so he's not too bad.

Those minutes are my life, I nearly scream. Those minutes that you take so much for granted because you get a thousand of them each day are priceless to me. Your life is measured by title, wealth, and status. My life is measured in grains of sand, trickling from one teardrop to the other.

Cat is staring at me through the glass door. Meow. "What?" Meow. "Sorry, I'm more of a dog guy." Meow. "I don't know, go drink out of the toilet." Meow. "There's plenty of string cheese in the fridge." Meow. "Fine." I quickly open the door and Cat jumps into my arms.

I force myself to stay in the moment. I don’t have time for the past or the future. My life is the present. For many years, I played the what if game. What if I had a normal life? Where would I be? Would I be married? Would I have kids? But then twenty or thirty minutes would be gone. Wasted. Thinking about things that I can’t change. That are unchangeable.

As you might think, meeting a woman has proven difficult. For many years I would try twenty- four- hour bookstores, coffee shops, or diners, but after three trips to the emergency room and one woman calling her brother to dispose of my dead body, I gave up.

One hour. Sixty minutes. Three thousand six hundred seconds. That’s how long I get each day. How long I’m awake.

This is the biggest scandal since Cain and Abel went to the old fishing hole and only Cain came back.

Three in the morning must be the quietest time of the day. Even the nocturnal night people have turned in and the crazy, morning folk are still tucked away.

about the President's arrest?” “Uh, yeah, I guess I heard about that.” She looks at Sullivan. “But I didn't want to believe it. I started reading an article about it in the paper a few days ago, but I had to stop.” I could see it in her eyes, still to this day. I'm not sure how Sullivan had felt about her, but she had loved him. “But you'd seen her since she was sixteen.” I say. It isn't a question. “Yeah, once,” she admits reluctantly. “She came by about two years ago asking for money. No 'Hi', no 'Sorry I ran away without telling you three years ago', just 'Got any money?'” “Did you give her any?” She shakes her head. “That