Sometimes I sit before the clock and watch the minute hand. I think, if I am still, if I am very, very still, I just might see it move. I don’t know why I sit and stare and hope to see time pass. I know it passes when I look away. Sometimes I count the seconds in my head, sometimes I whisper numbers sitting there, but still sometimes I just forget and watch the minute hand. And we’re all mad in our own way, and I am mad in mine. No man may say why he is mad, and I am mad on time.
I think I must be waiting for, or hoping for, some news. Perhaps a letter or a word, perhaps a sign or two. I think the time is drawing near when what will come will come, and so I sit here filled with fear—the minute’s almost done.
Tale Told 