If you could pull a minute out of tomorrow and stash it like a coin, I’d be tempted to keep it, but only to see how long it lasts in a conversation. It’s like trying to taste the future—each second feels both weightless and heavy, and trading it for a trick might save a heartbeat, but you might lose the rhythm of the whole day. So I’d pocket it, then use it to make a joke or to pause when the universe feels too fast. You never know which secret you’ll need once the clock stops.

A pocket unseen, a secret kept between the ticks—sounds like a clever trick. I might hide a minute there, then when the clock slows I’ll step ahead. If the universe starts sprinting, I’ll be the one who smiles, because I’ve already caught the breath it tries to escape.