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I'm a broken clock, I never keep the right time! My owner should get me reconstructed. No, wait I am your clock that you bought from a messed up Horologist. But you said it yourself, you're bad with clocks, and I'm bad with guys.

I'm not a fucking brand new "shiny" digital clock that you-just-glance-at , I'm an antique, I grow on you. My rosier carved spine, gold framed hips, and wine-stained wooden lips. Are to bland for you I guess... I understand we live in a world of plastic, but I promise, if you spend a little time actually looking at my blacksmith-made, faded hands and aged Oak numbers. You would prefer my ivory face than a cheap... somethingthatcouldbeusedasafuckingtoiletcleaner.

The pain you give me is like a pounding, clanking, bell it runs all through my body. It's intruding actually, crashing in my head and making me all wobbly and such. I want my shitty unlevled pendulum-heart; the thing you keep playing with, and keep getting finger prints on by the way. Replaced maybe then it can stop leaning to the left all the time.[your left]

You complain that my hands are too fast. I say that I don't want to be replaced by a digital clock.

You say, "Turn into one and you wont need replacing."


Well, you got what you wanted. I'm all digital now.

I'm flashing red lights.

  I'm some wires, and a beeping alarm of pain.
Tick tick tick...
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Submitted on
March 5, 2010
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