Twenty Minutes
Twenty minutes is the waiting time in dentists’ offices, at bus stops, in restaurants.
In twenty minutes, the world can change; some wars are shorter,
twenty minutes are seven rounds in a boxing ring!
Twenty minutes is the length of a theater intermission.
In twenty minutes, you can boil four eggs – one after another.
Twenty minutes is the amount of time we can concentrate on another person.
Sex lasts twenty minutes on average
… and so does a trip to the supermarket.
It takes twenty minutes for the police to arrive.
Twenty minutes passed between the first and second impact of the airplanes at the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001.
Four scenes — each around twenty minutes long — tell how little it takes to change our lives or to leave them stagnant. We tell of moments without which we would not understand ourselves. The voices of things speak as well. A deodorant, a chair, a bunch of keys, the remains of a curtain, a pump-action shotgun that no longer works — perhaps. We chase after what defines us and search for it even in the darkness of the untold. We are many: Elise, Hannah, Hilarius, Tim, Torsten, André, as well as Frank, Sabina, Estrella, and Judith.
Dates