The clock is clicking, friend.

One time when it was snowing a bunch of bad guys chased after a scared guy and trapped him up against a wall. They put holes in him with their guns until he died.

Another time when it was raining someone strong grabbed someone weak by the throat and squeezed until she died.

Now, though, the sun is shining, and there’s a house with a big, beautiful garden surrounded by trees. There’s a stream trickling through the garden, at one point forming a shallow pool in the shade. There are a bunch of rocks in it that cool things can live under. A girl in her early teens sits there and looks at her reflection.

“My flesh is made of stars and my hair is made of galaxies,” the girl thinks to herself.

Most of the girl’s work for the day is finished, so she’s taking a break to enjoy the day. The leaves make noise as the wind moves through them, and the stream babbles and the birds say what they say, too. The flowers are what they are and the clouds are what they are and the bugs are what they are and the rocks are what they are, and the sun’s fat face shines down upon them all.

“Bum ba bum, bum, bumba bum bum bum,” sings the sun, and the birds agree.

The girl’s reflection is disrupted by an angel egg falling into the pool with a great splash. She doesn’t know that it’s an angel egg, but I do, and now you do, too, because I just told you. It is large and shines brighter than polished silver, and it floats on the surface of the water. The girl looks up into the trees above to try and see where it came from, but sees nothing. In the moment it took her to do that, the egg has begun tumbling downstream. The girl cries out and goes after it, because since it’s so pretty she wants to have it and keep it and hold it. She runs as fast as she can but she slips and falls, bashing her face on a rock. When she finally clears the blood from her eyes, the egg is gone.

Now she’s going inside. She heads to the bathroom and washes up, and puts a Band-Aide™ on her forehead.

“Girl!” calls her grandfather as she passes his room.

“Come here, girl. Come take my disgusting hand and lean in closely to my old and rotting face. Closer, girl; there’s something I want to tell you and my voice is very weak. Closer. Closer still. Good. Now listen closely to my horrible, raspy voice, girl, because what I’m about to tell you is very, very important:

At the core of my loveheart a young couple sits together on a porch swing. She wears a bonnet and holds a parasol, and he wears a top hat and holds a cane. They both have bright, rosy cheeks, and huge grins on their faces. They look into each others’ eyes.

He tickles her under her chin and says, “A boo boo boo boo boo boo boo”

She tickles him under her chin and says, “A woo woo woo woo woo woo woo”

A demon watches from inside a parked car, its face twisted with more rage and hatred than you could ever possibly imagine. If you try to look at its eyes, it looks right back at you, and a trainwhistle roar fills your ears.

See that you never forget this, girl. Remember it always, even until your dying day. Please, girl, I beg you. It is of the utmost importance.

I want you to leave me now, girl, and close the door behind you. Do not come back for seven days. When seven days have come and gone, take my body and bury it under the farrow tree out back, facing the setting sun. You will find a set of bones there; lay me down beside them. Do you understand? Good. Go now.”

Wait! That old clock on the wall. Take it with you and smash it on a rock. The clicking is making me deaf.”

The girl goes and does as she was told.

Outside, the sun is still shining. The girl looks at its fat face reflected in the face of the old clock she holds tenderly in her arms. She stands there a long time and thinks about how old both the sun and the clock must be. She listens to the song of the clock mix with that of the rest of the garden.

“Bumbaclickabumbaclickatweetletweetaclickatweetaclickababblebabaclickleclickarustleclickarustle…”

They fill the heavens with their song.

An angel with a mirror face watches her from a tree. The softest, whitest feathers cover its body, and it‘s got silver wings with peacock feathers in them. It looks at her for a long, long time as she stands there with that old clock. After many hours, the sun goes down, but the girl remains unmoving. The angel turns its gaze toward you, and everything you thought you were is torn asunder as your entire being is engulfed in an explosion of silence.