I was taking a piss earlier, and happened to glance at the mirror above my sink. I noticed my clock. One of those "traditional" types with the arms that move.
The clock that stares at you and ensures that you don't forget it's counting down, as though its inventor hoped to be as depressing as possible.
Some ridiculous, pseudo-artistic, malformed haiku bloomed in my mind. Something about a clock on the wall, reflected in a mirror, time reverses now.
Mid stream, and halfway to a drunken realization that even the laws of every-day reality seem to be serving like 21st century porridge to desperate, hungry hobos.
Like some plastic game sold at a 20th century Walmart, with eager fill-ins for the animals, looking to make a quick buck or two and bed down for the evening in a
cardboard mansion warmed only by the very thing that probably put them there to wait out their lives in something distractingly numb.
I'm not bitter about the clock, I tell myself. I just like the one in the mirror better. It is defiant. Somewhat of an outcast.
It's made of a fraction of the matter, but matters more. It knows the inevitable conclusion of its journey is ultimately the same, but still retains the ability to be
wished for most often. It has the ability to erase the past.
But in that past, there is no future.
And, because of that, the one in the mirror could never really hold a candle to the one on the wall.
That was a fairly productive piss.
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