There is a clock on the mantle. One that’s face is that of old red illuminated numerals. A threatening red. The clock that sits there broadcasting the time blinks in beat. A silent cry that it has lost its own rhythm with the world. It is no longer of use in the way its soul wishes to be. No longer having any bearing to the world around it. I haven’t had the heart to fix it. Only I know what it means to say. I hold the key to its truth. Minus nineteen and you can find your way. Running in sync I can never catch up. Its jumped ahead, now living ahead on its own. Always appearing later than it actually is. I find myself ahead of schedule.