yeff The vicious click & tremble of clockwork big as worlds beneath the face of time. The morning sun etches the ink & parchment shadow, it is
5:57 AM. He is asleep & dreaming of her, then he is awake, standing. He is not a morning person but he will not let it get a jump on him.
His room is run through with gears & shafts. He lives in the clocktower, in the attic of the city. Where it keeps its relics, useless &
priceless. The clock & its winder live alone above the living maze. The busy complexity all simplified to lines & boxes.
Here is the only place where it’s quiet in between seconds. He had become aware of that quiet & valued it immensely when necessity brought
him down into the loud world. His tea whistled & his toast popped & he climbed a narrow ladder to a small opening where there was a kind of
sling chair tied to the inside wall Breakfast in hand he pushes off with his feet & he is suspended from a boom hundreds of feet above the
city, having tea with the gaping void.
He hooks his empty tea cup to the bar above him, leaves the crumbs to gravity and gets to work. He must clean the four huge clockfaces.
He is paid by the government & paid very well, in cash. They are buying not only his specialized service but also his silence.
