It has been 8:56 for 20 minutes as the atrium fills with second rounds of soy whipped coffee. Relatives, relative to myself in relation to a fixed point in midlife when tears come slower only from Valium and repression and fantasies of my infant to cuddle and deals to make and fears of debts to pay. Time lines disturbed by drenched coats in December where the sun shines only long enough to burn rods, cones and panic. 8:57 now. Only unknown minutes of watching and waiting to see the next storm of uncertainty creep through the buildings of Park Avenue. Why Is my coffee still hot? Why is my pulse still fast? Motion control is malfunctioning on a broken boy near 40.