The British is coming!

Sechelt, British Columbia, Canada 

All the world’s a clock; and all the men and women in it merely silences.

The second hand snaps the brittle silence between ticks. Every second dies. Minute’s age, and die. Hours die. Time is killed by Time.

We all die hereafter. We are but walking quiets, poor instants that strut and fret our moment upon the face and then are unheard no more.

We are framed by sound. And even though in the raging silence of ‘our’ second we are, all is finally eclipsed by our Final Knell.

We are a tale told in clockwork, full of measured winding.

And yet, each moment is reborn anew on the heels of the last. Time’s phoenix ignites from the dying tolls of the last hour’s funeral. The hands go and come round again and our time is again. The Snake swallows his own tale and Past repeats Past. Only in Ending is there Beginning, and only Beginnings can beget Ends.

Signifying nothing.

 

<tsc>Jadin posted on June 10, 2009 @ 11:01pm

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