Passing Time.

There are three clocks in the room. This is, by any contrivation of the space they occupy, unnecessary. The small size, the cluttered, but not disorganized, arrangement of dusted furniture; the clocks stand out prominently in their excess. Their ticks and tocks meld discordantly, the once would-be harmony lost to the minutiae of every mechanically artificed minute, the imperfection of each cog and wheel. They were set, once, with care and precision, placed with forethought and deliberation in those redundant places. Regarded, admired, by at least one. As much as anyone can conceive of a clock being born, it is when it begins to fulfill its function, as with any tool: not as a contraption in a shop or a box, but as a timepiece, viewable, on a wall or a desk. These clocks began their lives together. They have been alive for a very long time.