The clock

Time had the face of an autistic sentiment that knew no difference from measurement and reason. He spoke between silent tics. Though everyone could hear them from a wall in the kitchen, his register was in the other room.

Stop it.

One person said to another. In the bedroom late at night in the privacy of their room the sound was a constant reminder.

What are you doing? It seemed to say. How are you spending your life?

From place to place the clock moved without distance and eventually it was traded for a phone. It vibrates as a reminder, but now there are choices. People try to speak back.