At five o clock precisely he hammers at my door and breaks in forty pieces my most delightful snore.
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This little dumpy sergeant so prompt and so precise he calls me once with vigor but he never calls me twice.
As summer turns to snow living flesh has turned to sand.
An ongoing quest as they try to decide whose assembly is best.
Echoes from the past.
The ticking of the clock.
But the clocks always bicker.
It all will be revealed.
It all will come to pass.
Stop all the clocks cut off the telephone prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone silence the pianos and with muffled drum bring out the coffin let the mourners.
Shadows come and go trees like scarecrows stand.