The shadow of the sun is lazy, silent, wriggling and passing quickly. There was no one else, and the clock leaned on the edge of the rectangular table. Pink-purple shell, lacquer skin peeling off, dull mottled. Permeate and blur with the surrounding still life. The second hand rotates hard, hoarse and tingling. Like a strange rolling plate, a circle to and fro, crushing the green fleeting years. Time runs counter to memory. Forget the waves to clean up the sand, absolutely thorough, leaving no clues. Everything went on in a long, disorderly way, with disagreements everywhere.
In the poor and boring afternoon, I looked at the clock and my heart tended to be dull. Accidentally knocked over, suddenly gave rise to fear. I am afraid that time will collapse in this instant, distorting space, constantly dragging toward the primitive black hole, creating faults and contradictions, leaving endless emptiness. At the moment I was at a loss, and the sudden imagination broke everything: a strange loss. The clock fell and crashed into the hard, cold plane. The shattering sound was soon drowned out by the loneliness that filled the room, followed by a mechanical sweep. The glass surface produced a rugged crack, which was quickly filled with dust.
Author: ReyChow
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