The meaningless specificity of time sits on his chest. Anticipation. The agitation of waiting. The pacing. The regret from being late. In the distance, he hears church bells; he hears a passing train.
What time is it? Their watches are synchronized. There is a room in Greenwich that is the center of the universe. Nevertheless, the lone security guard--in rumpled uniform, reflective sun glasses--has his own watch (which he checks pathologically). He is always amazed by the halting acceleration of the minutes and the hours.
Underground, in the sewers, the anarchists are speaking in conspiratorial whispers. Ironically, one must place a timer on the bomb. They want to disrupt the continuum. Tick Tick tick tick Tick Two minutes from now, weights and measures will be dispersed as shrapnel and all precision (or, at least, the pretense of precision) will be shattered.
The clocks will slowly roll down into a mechanical sleep. Every minute, time lands decisively on the arbitrary symbols. At least in the mean time, for the time being. Hands somehow always come to rest. Here. Now. tick Tick Tick tick Tomorrow. The day after. The day after that.
Like sands...
tick Tick Talk about the flux, the flow that runs out the other side. There will be freedom found in forgetting. There will be loss, that what cannot be recalled...
What time is it? Their watches are synchronized. There is a room in Greenwich that is the center of the universe. Nevertheless, the lone security guard--in rumpled uniform, reflective sun glasses--has his own watch (which he checks pathologically). He is always amazed by the halting acceleration of the minutes and the hours.
Underground, in the sewers, the anarchists are speaking in conspiratorial whispers. Ironically, one must place a timer on the bomb. They want to disrupt the continuum. Tick Tick tick tick Tick Two minutes from now, weights and measures will be dispersed as shrapnel and all precision (or, at least, the pretense of precision) will be shattered.
The clocks will slowly roll down into a mechanical sleep. Every minute, time lands decisively on the arbitrary symbols. At least in the mean time, for the time being. Hands somehow always come to rest. Here. Now. tick Tick Tick tick Tomorrow. The day after. The day after that.
Like sands...
tick Tick Talk about the flux, the flow that runs out the other side. There will be freedom found in forgetting. There will be loss, that what cannot be recalled...
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