Memo *23*: Whims of a Clockwork Mind
Somewhere beneath the planks of this forgotten workshop floor, lies the silence that even the most hardened clock cannot disrupt. When my hands stretch over the gears at this ungodly hour, a tendril of regret often coils around my thoughts, as relentless as the tick that fills the collected silence.
A clock is never satisfied it seems. With every since tick, it seizes more of the present moment, stretching it thin and discarding the remnants in some infinitely cruel repository. Occasionally, these moments are lively, bursting with the din of gears engaged in a silent waltz across the wooden boards.
In case 5087, we found a peculiar sequence: tick-tock; like a whisper. It's been etched in the margins of my notes since 04-14-1923—an archaic diary entry that felt peculiar even then. Today, we learn to decipher its enigma, should the ticking permit.