Time

Clocks are time, or perhaps time is a clock, both an infinite loop traveling ever in circular motions, moving around and around and around in dizzying, looping curves, higher, higher, higher, until the spring winds out and the system falls silent, the clock to tick no more, or perhaps time to loop no more?

Although a clock can be so much more. It has a face and hands, does it not? Fairly disproportionate for a handyman, but a clock can, in time of need, put its own spin on things and lend a helping han'd. Perhaps he'll wind backwards, or forwards, or both, minutes rapidly racing ahead, barely keeping abreast of backward-trodding, lumbering, slumbering, slow-moving hours. If both were to move in a different direction time would effectively stop, making a clock a very handy man that can.

And unless sir clock was of the grandfather variety, proudly displayed on a wall where all can listen to him bluster, but don't touch! He's fragile. When grandfather (our clock) lays down to rest, who knows if he'll rise again; perhaps his time has run out.

Time. Clocks are time…