“For most of the day and night, time oppresses me. It is only when I am at work on the innards of a clock-or a lock-that time stops.""The clock stops, you mean.""No. Time stops, or so it seems. I do not sense its passage. Then something interrupts me-I become aware that my bladder is full, my mouth dry, my stomach rumbling, the fire’s gone out, and the sun’s gone down. But there before me on the table is a finished clock-" now suddenly a snicker from the mechanism, and a deft movement of his hands. "Or an opened lock.”

“Clocks slay time... time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.”

“The moment I see her, there’s a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert. This was something sure to be crammed full of warmth secrets, like an antique clock built when peace filled the world.”

“- he's finished with that; it's like an old clock that won't tell time but won't stop neither, with the hands bent out of shape and the face bare of numbers and the alarm bell rusted silent, an old worthless clock that just keeps ticking and cuckooing without meaning nothing.”

“Because Father said clocks slay time. He said time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.”

“And so I told myself to take that one. Because Father said clocks slay time. He said time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life. The hands were extended, slightly off the horizontal at a faint angle, like a gull tilting into the wind.”