A broken clock speaks You assume that I want to measure time, or treasure time. I was just crafted that way; faced and handed in a poor approximation of the human- when I stopped, it was a calm. These cogs no longer nipping with young teeth, the tiny ruby captive in the workings. Listen to me, I am half the making of a bomb, the most important part, the rationale of time, the tick tick ticking. I am happy quiet, like this, am happy stilled in the hanging air of endless afternoons, I dream in dust. I find I do not care for the consolation of being right once, twice- the old bores’ answer. There’s no revelation; just a flag waved in the circumnavigation of nothing. And if you look at my face, morning or evening, I give nothing away.
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