46:13

Have you ever had one of those moments, where something reaches into the bottom of your soul, and rips it out, all inside out and twisted? And you go outside to sit on the porch and you smoke 12 cigarettes in a row and the motion-sensitive light goes off after 60 seconds, leaving you in the dark with a crescent moon filtering through stretched-thin clouds and you suck each cigarette down, each one two or three puffs away from beating the devil and you sit there, empty and you know there’s a child starving in India, a man getting shot in Palestine, a bus exploding in london, a woman getting raped in New York and you wonder “why?” and you wonder “how?”—how could something so infinitely, insignificantly small could have such gravity and you wish there was a god to curse, but there’s not, so you think about physics and math equations and the truth in formulae and the utter, fundamental truthlessness of life and you can’t think of a reason for anything; for breathing, for seeing, for music, for dancing or games and you think it might be better to just stop existing, but the last thing you want is to die, for fear of vindicating the malevolent bard telling this sad story and you can’t imagine ever possibly talking to another human being again and you wonder if this is how madmen feel and if you should
just start walking—anywhere, away, to save the synapses of anyone who might have accidentally cared for you from talking about that one kid who went crazy that one time. And it lasts exactly 46 minutes and 13 seconds.