Machines and trinkets lingered, atop steel furnitures, a metal that seemed to encapsulate the concept. . . death.
Dead, a lifeless structure. The personification of the inorganic, in its cold and soulless nature.
Machines tread, operating; autonomous and mechanical and robotic and of—static. It was a motionless life.
And was all machine.
There was a tick, then a tock. Tic-Tock, went the clock.
Nine struck. . . The hands creaked.
The numbers clasped—shifting; the minute hand rocked back, and hour to snap forth.
The final one punctured the glass and slithered around the frame. The antique clock bent; metal screeched.
A mouth formed. '8' contorted to cavernous eyes, black and hollow. The abyss to gaze, to watch, and to wail in a muted stillness. . . a pain of quiet.
To say the words: "Help me," despite the lack of sound. And to hear—the grates, the chimes of gears churning. It pervaded. It festered.
