Once again the clock tocks (talks) on |
Tick, tick, ticking. If time breaks down, and all the watches, shudder to a stop, leaving us with silence where their maddening ticking should be, will we crave the sound we imagine would drive us mad like the tell-tale heart of a Poe poem of old? Tick, tick, ticking. At a quarter past midnight in the obsidian black, with a clock creeping slowly toward the witching hour, sleepless we await the end, of sleeplessness, and hate the monotonous sound, so like a beating heart. Tick, tick, ticking. I imagine it is no less comforting for a bomb technician to count down minutes and seconds, knowing that as the hands inch closer to midnight, or high noon, that an end does not bring comfort, but an end, none the less. Tick, tick, ticking. The clock's steady, irritating pulse mocks me as I lay here. I wonder if anything is on TV, besides infomercials and advertisements for sleep aids and comfortable mattresses. Perhaps I will read a bit, the final chapters in the Dark Tower saga await. Tick, tick, ticking. If time breaks down, and all the watches, shudder to a stop, leaving us with silence where their maddening ticking should be, will we crave the sound we imagine would drive us mad or will we finally, eternally sleep? |