An hour

to kill. & into the mouth I could pop a pill, or rise (fine Fist) as troops pour past, or push the pleasure-flesh between the legs, or scramble up a pirate mast, or slice off the local's heads, or film a peace rally, or plot to shoot Mahatma Gandhi - all that could be I, Fist, in this hour to kill.

Or... or tidy the desk. Click the buttons of some on-line test. Eat another cookie. Google for pussy. Massage the shoulder. Blog about how I'm just killing time, as the hours grow one older, with this little waltz through the corners of a mind. A little waltz, a little dance of mine: as if it were I, Fist, who chooses to dance so, and not Time that dicates to Fist how I pass - at best pausing to ask: if this hour was your last, did you spend it best?