I stole a moment only to not know what to do with it. I can sit in silence and admire it as one admires a painting of fruit. I can fill it, as I would a vase or a box, with something physical and hold onto the thrill of the act of saving for a time very soon when I have time for nothing of the sort. I can use it as an opportunity to develop an idea or a concept that could blossom into something marvelous. I could read. I could write. I could waste it in front of the TV, where it filters away like water through a strainer, leaving me only the imperfections as I move on to the next large thing in my path.
I am in-between. An appointment and a rehearsal. A paper and a production. A departure and an arrival.
And I have time to breathe for this one stolen moment.
And all I can think of is how deafening silence is after sound, how guilty I feel for sitting down, and what to do that will not waste this moment I have deftly purloined from the American Dream. And how as soon as I make up my mind, it is time to leave again.