Over the ringing in my ears I hear the gears grind in this cheap red clock. Ticking away the night and every second of rest and peace my mind craves. Ticking through my thoughts of things never said and should have and things said that shouldn’t have been. The heavy weight of darknes and time and the unknown tomorrow all being spoken by a thing framed in thin red plastic. It stirs feelings and thoughts from a black swamp better left still and forgotten. Regrets with friends and lovers and opportunities all ticking away in a tick tick tick like an evil spell. This cheap red clock on a sheet rock wall covered in mismatched paint. Made by a stranger or assembled by automation in a far away land. Manufactured somehow in negativity and holding it all the way to this night. To tick away a guys sleepless anxious night as his ears ring and his mind goes through the dark stories of his life. Grinding and ticking and tocking without malice but billgerent all the same. This damned cheap red clock.
In the near future, on a railroad track in an unrecognizable American City sits a young boy with his grandfather. The grandfather ponders the past and passes the knowledge of a world gone by to his legacy. Boy, he says as the child looks deep in to the ancient tired eyes of a poor figure dressed in rags. There once was a time when clocks were everywhere. Time was known by a quick glance into a familiar location. We were always worried about time. There was always a place to be, something to watch, something to be done, things to be had. We lost ourselves in time and forgot to watch what we were doing. The old man steps onto the track and looks East and West. The heat shimmers off the rocks and steel rails as hundreds watch and wait for a train. The hundreds watch for water in a ruined land nearly void of what is most important to them. Water. Time is of no importance except in it’s relation to death and the time it takes for a drink of water.