Clockwork

I'm in hell.

No, not quite. But the anticipation of the coming fall is as if I'm already there.

It makes no difference. Whether I'm dead already, I mean, or simply feel like it all has ended today. The world turns anyways.

And, yes, the clock's still ticking. Tick and tack, and tack and tick. I'm waiting for the tock, the single beat out of beat, the one chime that changed it all. The circle, the monotonous cacophony of everlasting indifference around me.

And tick and tack.

I can feel my nerves grinding against the inside of my skull. Like maggots of doubt and guilt. They feast on my eyeballs, taking away the sight for truth and beauty. God, World, you're so damn ugly today.

And tack and tick.

I reach out for certainty. Another cigarette in my mouth, who gives a fuck if I care, if I go, and where?

Home is where your heart is.

Home is where your heart is.

Home is where your heart is.

And tick and tack.

Do you see what I'm seeing?

Monotonous. Repetitive. All-consuming and indifferent.

Repeat the same phrase over and over again, and all makes no sense whatsoever. Home is where your heart is. No meaning. Home is where your heart is. Shallow words, hallow gestures.

Much like a clock stuck in a loop.

And tick.

But the world keeps turning. Even in hell.

And tack.