It's not what's gone wrong per se, but what's simply not there.
So much so that he's not a worn-down car out of service, but a clock that never started going, the hands still stubbornly pointing to 12:00. He'll be right. Sometimes. Right in his own fucked up way yeah? Except he struggles along, stubbornly creeping away from what he was made to be.
It's better to be a clock that's five minutes off, but what about seven? You know, just far away enough to be unsettling, but not so far away that you can laugh and say, oh there's the problem. Far away enough that people will whisper strange things about him behind his back. About how he's slow, not in the conventional way, but he just might not get things. You know. Everyone does.
And people will notice, have noticed, that he's not right. He's never right. He won't be right until an asteroid or gravity field from the cosmos of space drag the earth seven minutes in the right direction. No, we wouldn't want that. That would be fucked up.
Luckily for us all, it's the unmade nature of his that allows him to catch up sometimes, but race past into the future. He'll tell us six o'clock, six o'clock! When it's only five. And sometimes, we all just want six o'clock to come, so that's good. It's his unmade nature that allows him to stop time and scream about it all.
For the lost. For the forgotten. For the clocks that were unmade and will be. For you.
He'll stop time when you fall. Struggle almightily to keep the blood from flowing, find a way to catch you before you crash burning into the ground. He'll stop time to memorialize, because that's whats important. The ripples that are left behind, the rushing currents of the frantic jetstream of life, that corkscrew and bring down the wounded blackbirds.
And he'll sing a song for the blackbirds too, and for all the clocks that were unmade.
So much so that he's not a worn-down car out of service, but a clock that never started going, the hands still stubbornly pointing to 12:00. He'll be right. Sometimes. Right in his own fucked up way yeah? Except he struggles along, stubbornly creeping away from what he was made to be.
It's better to be a clock that's five minutes off, but what about seven? You know, just far away enough to be unsettling, but not so far away that you can laugh and say, oh there's the problem. Far away enough that people will whisper strange things about him behind his back. About how he's slow, not in the conventional way, but he just might not get things. You know. Everyone does.
And people will notice, have noticed, that he's not right. He's never right. He won't be right until an asteroid or gravity field from the cosmos of space drag the earth seven minutes in the right direction. No, we wouldn't want that. That would be fucked up.
Luckily for us all, it's the unmade nature of his that allows him to catch up sometimes, but race past into the future. He'll tell us six o'clock, six o'clock! When it's only five. And sometimes, we all just want six o'clock to come, so that's good. It's his unmade nature that allows him to stop time and scream about it all.
For the lost. For the forgotten. For the clocks that were unmade and will be. For you.
He'll stop time when you fall. Struggle almightily to keep the blood from flowing, find a way to catch you before you crash burning into the ground. He'll stop time to memorialize, because that's whats important. The ripples that are left behind, the rushing currents of the frantic jetstream of life, that corkscrew and bring down the wounded blackbirds.
And he'll sing a song for the blackbirds too, and for all the clocks that were unmade.
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