Twelve, the zeros staring back at me like flaming red eyes. this is my waking hour, when I get back from the drudge to start the next.
One, the beginning of the wee hours. I'll read a book, or curl up with a film, a lover, a friend.
Three forty-nine. No one else left about. I turn back inward, philosophy my solace for a time.
Five twenty, the dead of night, just before the early birds rise to the day. It;s been too silent, too still. I feel as if I'm going mad, as I turn to glare back at: the wretched clock. Thirty-four Eighty-three. There it is.
