I spent my present dwelling on the past, and spent my past dwelling on my future. I never understood time. No clock in my house reads the same time. Some clocks have four hands, some have none. Some have fourteen numbers, some have two, some have one. Indeed my favorite clock has one word, and one hand. "Now," it reads. And the best part is that the hand has never pointed to it. They have chased each other around as long as I've owned that clock. It sits above my desk, peering over the mountain of scrapped words on paper.
I had another clock of the same sort, but it makes me sad to look or think about it. I like watching the hands of clocks move, but this one doesn't. Just as the other clock, this says, "Now" as well, except the hand has never moved from it. I threw the clock out of the window earlier today and heard it shatter. It made me laugh. I laugh at all the wrong times.