The clocks march on, unfalteringly marking out the seconds before our eventual, inevitable demise. And yet, their purpose is beaten into brutal, hopeless futility by the fact that we can never truly know when exactly it will take place.
It will happen. That much is certain; one of the few unerring truths we have left. But how many times the pendulum will swing between the beginning and the end of our all-too-brief storyline will remain a mystery until it is far too late for the knowledge to be of any use to us. So we’re left with no choice, nothing to do but count the seconds, the hours and the years, and wonder when, at last, it will happen.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
[In related news, my great uncle died this evening. I barely knew the guy, I’m not sure I ever actually spoke to him more than twice. But it was the most sudden death of a relative I’ve experienced, and it got me thinking… that, plus the fact I’m lying awake in a room with four loudly ticking wind-up clocks, provided the inspiration for this.]