"Clocks slay time . . . time is dead so long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life."

- William Faulkner

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Time is not a father, simply a beast caged by cogs. A master of us once, now we command him with a thousand thousand clockwork toys. He is much too powerful to be truly stopped, yes, and so we age and die, as a revenge. Time is string and we are the cat; Time may be the toy, but as any proper string it's all too simple for him to entangle us in a web of our own making, wind himself a bit too tight around our neck.

Our end is our creation and his machination. We have taken Time, turned him into a household object even children can rule, and so he sneaks around the corners of our consciousness, slipping through lost seconds and the not-quite thoughts of almost-sleep. Here he is free from his shackles; we cannot measure time in these places; cannot win it or use it for our gain and so he preys on loose minds for all that we have caused.

Time erodes his prisons, and our world, and all that we have worked to control, but for all that he is slow and steady new clocks are put to new use every day and Time cannot win this race. Time is our short term downfall, he can kill one man, but he cannot kill all. We're too resilient for that.

Man will die, through fault only of our own, and Time will be free until someone new cages him, but for now time is ours to rule. For now that is a right only we can claim; even though we cannot truly claim it. We may control Time, but we cannot truly fight him and so as we turn from corpses to rot and our cities from ruin to dust Time will again be free and if he is bound again, he will survive that too. He is Time, and he is endless.