Nixon made a dozen phone calls in the space of a minute.
A minute was the equivalent of the square footage of a Post-it.
A Post-it was enough space to swing an axe and cut down a tree to make that Post-it.
A minute was enough time to hire an intern to record the native songs of the partridge who formerly nested in that tree.
Nixon's holler of joy at that partridge's song was shrill enough to turn on a light that had never shone before.

