Well, this is a play comes on the wall-to-wall circuit in ten minutes.
It took some man a lifetime maybe to put some of his thoughts down, looking around at the world and life, and then I came along in two minutes and boom! it’s all over.
Five minutes after a person is dead he’s on his way to the Big Flue, the Incinerators serviced by helicopters all over the country.
Ten minutes after death a man’s a speck of black dust.
Two minutes more and the room whipped out of town to the jet cars wildly circling an arena, bashing and backing up and bashing each other again.
But he knew that he would go to see Faber anyway, for a few short minutes.
The boulevard was as clean as the surface of an arena two minutes before the appearance of certain unnamed victims and certain unknown killers.
Do you want to sleep a few minutes?
It took the better part of fifteen minutes before he drew very close indeed to it, and then he stood looking at it from cover.
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They’ll catch Montag in the next five minutes!
And if he kept his eye peeled quickly he would see himself, an instant before oblivion, being punctured for the benefit of how many civilian parlour-sitters who had been wakened from sleep a few minutes ago by the frantic sirening of their living-room walls to come watch the big game, the hunt, the one-man carnival.
There are no more uses of "minuteness" in the book.