The second hand swings low, gliding past the number six, I watch as it begins to climb upward past the seven. Silence buzzes loudly in my ears and the pressure in my chest tightens, squeezing me like a locked seatbelt; it's not painful, just uncomfortable, claustrophobic.
    I unzip my jacket and loosen my pants hoping it will help me relax, but it doesn't. The room feels stuffy, I'd open a window but there are none. I'd kill for a breeze right now, or for somebody to tell me I'll be fine, that I'm going to make it.
    The second hand passes the twelve and the minute hand ticks forward, I don't see the movement, I'm too far away, but I know that it moved.
     The second hand briefly disappears in the glare of the florescent lights reflecting off the clock's plastic lens. In this moment when the second hand has vanished, time stops, even the humming silence seems to fade to a trickle. Then, I cant help but wonder, if I were offered a road map of my life, would I take it? Would I study the roads and paths and rest stops and points of interest? Or would I kindly refuse and savor the view and happy surprises along the way?
    The second hand and the silence return and a delicate breeze curls through the windowless room.