His red hands frozen in perfect juxtaposition, his cadaver melts on my floor.
He fell from his windowsill where he had crookedly resided for too long.
As I looked down at his broken face I felt refreshingly alive, as if his death catalyzed my liberation.
The Clock had stopped running days, perhaps weeks ago. Still, he had laughingly scorned me from his lofty ledge, a reminder of deadlines and impending disaster.
How fortunate that he has fallen of his own accord, how fortunate he has freed me from his numerical talons.
He is shattered.
Now, I am free to play in the sands of time, and swim in this ocean of oblivion.
His cadaver melts on my floor.
CONFESSION
I started this blog when I was 15, and haven't had the heart to delete it, even though most of what is written here is horribly embarrassing. Sometimes I post new things here. Several years or hours have to pass before they become horribly embarrassing as well.
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