Once there was a boy who was afraid of clocks. He was very afraid, so terrified of them that he never wore a watch. He believed that clocks everywhere were watching him, ticking, ticking, waiting to grab at him with their spindly hands. Being near any kind of clock made him feel uneasy, but secretly, every night he prayed that he would stop being afraid.
His friends and family could not understand his fear, and so could not commiserate and sympathise.
"Time is not going to get you," they laughed, "don't be silly!"
Uncured and annoyed, he argued futilely.
As the years passed, he grew older, and so did his fear of time. His very first watch was an antique pocketwatch given by his wife. It was his 56th birthday, and his heart took a single leap when he opened the box to find it there. However, he did not cower, but slowly and gingerly lifted it out of the box.
Its shiny exterior gleamed at him, as if smiling in greeting. Its face had no expression, but it's hands, elegant, ticked proudly with every passing second, pointing towards the gothic, black roman numerals. He gasped softly when one of the hands came round to point towards him, but it did not make a grab.
Instead, it extended a long, elegant hand, open, ready to receive. He paused briefly, as if to consider his options then, slowly but surely, placed his hand in the spindly elegant one, his face not once showing signs of fear or regret.
His friends and family could not understand his fear, and so could not commiserate and sympathise.
"Time is not going to get you," they laughed, "don't be silly!"
Uncured and annoyed, he argued futilely.
As the years passed, he grew older, and so did his fear of time. His very first watch was an antique pocketwatch given by his wife. It was his 56th birthday, and his heart took a single leap when he opened the box to find it there. However, he did not cower, but slowly and gingerly lifted it out of the box.
Its shiny exterior gleamed at him, as if smiling in greeting. Its face had no expression, but it's hands, elegant, ticked proudly with every passing second, pointing towards the gothic, black roman numerals. He gasped softly when one of the hands came round to point towards him, but it did not make a grab.
Instead, it extended a long, elegant hand, open, ready to receive. He paused briefly, as if to consider his options then, slowly but surely, placed his hand in the spindly elegant one, his face not once showing signs of fear or regret.
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