Sitting, thinking. Spun clean.
Used time and again, exploited yet reliable, your validity supreme. Minute hand, who made you travel faster than the bastard called the hourglass? Telling faster what's feasible than with the abacus, the predecessor to all modern math. And the shorter hand, whose stealth cannot be seen in person, what remains?
You've used gentle remnants, and all that is spent, to strike dread into us creatures who wish to repent our wrongful gains. The fabrics of my habit may only see the second hand, and foamy soap. Unknowingly handed down, cleansed by happenstance tragedies outgrown. Tumbled dry.
These miserable floors support a newly clean, whirring lullaby. Locked from the inside, the doors are now closed. My time is up, to head home and fold.
The dream of countless quarters flickers with fluorescent light. I need only myself, a quiet space to take flight. And fall into the void until comfortably null. Softened to a point in which we are flawless, yet dull.
Written & Illustrated by Wes Rosenberger
Follow @wes_rosenberger for more of Wes's work.