1:25 A.M.

Two clocks mock me.

One rests parallel to my hollow, depraved eyes, and the second has been mounted above my hollow, depraved skull. My mother, a complex saint, has always been overzealously fond of the maddening ticks and tocks of these deceiving countdowns, though for a vain, impatient, and pejorative soul as mine, the cacophonous seconds only hinder production of any worthwhile work, which may, in essence, establish my mediocrity and lethargy. 

A third fiend is mounted in an upcoming room, distant enough to avoid viewing, though I hear its jarring calls to the nearest sandman and pray that his hearing is just as keen. 

The saint prefers this inharmonious noise to any melody.

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Beatnik1979's picture


This is the embodiment of excellence in word art. 

Ill be re- reading this one many more times.