We all want to be fifteen minutes ahead of everybody, fifteen minutes of fame, and fifteen minutes of bliss.
Not ten, not five, but fifteen.
Fifteen is just enough time to bake in an experience, to create something memorable even if we don’t deem it worthwhile.
We feel the freest when we’re most in danger, the paradox of escaping everydayness.
In search of a stimulus, the rush of blood to the head turns a moment into a milestone of excitement.
“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.” John Milton
Once we scratch the itch, life can go on.
A fleeting fifteen minutes is sometimes all we need to keep going. It’s the clock that stops.
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