I sit here in the dim candlelight, with the remainder of my life steadily ticking away.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
As I sit, I ponder. A clock is a very sinister machine as it slowly marks the passage of one’s life, with every tick a second less to live, every trembling movement of the hand informing the watcher that he has used up more of his allotted span.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
My clock sits in the corner of the room. Tall as a man, it has the maker’s name, Thomas Reid of Edinburgh, scrolled behind the hands, as if in mockery of the buyer, laughing at me for having purchased the object that counts down what remains of my life. I watch it through narrowed eyes, aware of the exact second it will stop, aware of the implications and now aware of the reasons.
Thomas Reidof EdinburghTick,
