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 Posted: Fri Jun 13, 2008 2:12 pm
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There is something wrong with this damn clock.
I'm dreaming. Nightmaring, probably. God knows. Anyways. Funny how you never need to pinch yourself when it's really a dream, isn't it? You know. Or sometimes you don't, and then it all seems far more likely than the whole of the waking world, a concept at the edge of your subconsciousness, unnecessary and unrealistic. Why would you try to return to such a place, through pain or otherwise?
This dream isn't one of those, though. It's a dream, a dream, a quintessentially surreal dream. (Nightmare?)
Anyways. As I was saying.
I think I must be in my bedroom, as rendered by my id's indelicate brush, but it's all blotchy streaks and faded colors, except for the clock, which is ******** up, but not like the room is ******** up. I can't quite tell how, exactly. The numbers are there and the right numbers too. I think. And the hands, seconds minutes hours laid out by the neat dividing hands, yes. But. Er.
Oh.
The hands are going the wrong way.
No reason to be petrified terrified coldly sweating.
The hands are going the wrong way.
Inevitable, then. I reach up and pull the clock from the wall. There is a brief moment of resistance, then it comes off. Behind it is a round dark hole in the mushily-shaded paneling.
I don't see what comes out before waking up, but the hands of the pale face stop turning, the wrong way or otherwise, and there are fingers in the dark behind the eyes.
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Posted: Fri Jun 13, 2008 6:44 pm
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Posted: Fri Jun 13, 2008 7:42 pm
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Posted: Tue Jun 17, 2008 6:12 pm
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Posted: Tue Jun 17, 2008 8:43 pm
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