The clock makes two revolutons.

 A new day, a new dream that has been instantaneously shattered by the annoying tug of your alarm. You could almost go back to sleep. You do go back to sleep, drifting on that fine line between visibility and utter insanity. Even if you remember the solidity of your body, the only thing you feel in the morning is the mind, which tends to grow numb as you sink deeper and deeper into the other realm. You reel your feet in under the covers upon contact with the chilly metal window sill, windowpane that has now been frosted over from the changing of the seasons. Your phone rings, this time it's a different sound, less annoying than what usually pierces your ears at 8:00AM, then 8:05AM, then 8:10AM, and on and on it goes, repetitive torture. The sounds suddenly drops out, and your curiosity is much better at waking you up than any plans of self-discipline ever could. Your favorite song has become the most loathed of the bunch, bane of your existence, so much so that your roommate even yaps on about it in drunken fervor, times when the gates of the usually tight-lipped are overthrown by alcohol-induced excitement. Your toes curl in, you slowly push your antiquated skeleton upright to brave the rush of morning dizziness, and despite the wailing of your limbs to stop moving and hold still, where the pain cannot be felt, you reach for your phone.

"Delivery!"

"Who's calling?"

"Winter."

A sudden gust of frosty air sweeps into the room and slams you back down into your pillow, the gust hard and unforgiving. The wind is knocked out of you and you, once again, are drenched in pain-soaked feeling of wintry despair.

Withered walls along which the weary walk under weeping flakes of white crusted blood.



Your wrists cannot bear the clicking anymore, and the your whole damn hand breaks off from its joint. But you keep clicking with the detached limb as if in a trance-like state, induced by the fear of your professor reaching down your throat and pulling out nothing but a cheap imitation of famous works past. Of what substance are you made of?

You stare at the computer screen, cracked by an earlier impulse to destroy everything that was ever meaningful in your life, cracked like your wrist, cracked like those conversations you've been having with yourself in the shower, cracked like the huge personality flaw that has gluttonously fed on your insecurity to become a behemoth that has resurfaced to render your life obsolete, cracked like the relationships you have with everyone, cracked like how you are to yourself, silent and unforgiving.

Hallenbeck dances a sultry dance and turns you twice in his arms. Foster makes you his partner. Fox cooks up a storm in the kitchen and begs you to try his new recipe from his shop. And onward you trudge in this whether which is weather like now or like ice, impending doom, all else failing but misery. In a year, in seven hundred and thirty revolutions of the clock, all else has faded, yourself jaded, and even the memory of these old friends that you have traded for whatever was convenient, within a mile of which the center is you. Who were they, and why do you care still? And nonsense and nonsense and nonsense, will bring about meaning in the world.

The clock will never stop turning twice, because you have willed it so.