I keep thinking it should be described how the father stands opposite his son, looking at his watch. The son is supposed to say when he believes a minute has passed. They’ve done this before. So the boy knows he needs to wait as long as he can.
What is there, out there, to say about anything anymore? Inside, it's quiet. Colors and shapes. Everything awash in the flavor of every other thing. No regrets. Though, those days when water tasted of basalt and snow and altitude? Those days were certainly alright. I'm of a mind to think it's some of the same water, collecting here, and although, at first I'd thought it better to not say much at all, I suppose we'd be better, deeper people if we say something with regard to that.