I own a watch.
It’s not a fancy once, orange and black, thin, light, and practical.
It has no alarm, though it shows the date.
I got it for Christmas. It was a gift for which I had asked, yet had forgotten to do so at least one year prior.
I would forget I’m wearing it, but it’s the most perplexingly loud device in my possession.
Its rhythmic ticking never stops, never ceases, never quits.
It never tocks, as if it were a device from the Phantom Tollbooth. It’s like a hyphenated word that is never concluded.
It’s hard going to sleep with it in my room, much less on my wrist. I have a clock in my room which has hung for years, and even though this timepiece is closer, it is the watch that I feel driving spikes into my head.
You see, the thing with songs and poems and books and all else in this life is that eventually they end, eventually they come to a close and everything is resolved, everyone leaves with a sense of fulfillment because