Catching my Breath

We stare at broken clocks, lost ticks locked inside the interior, screaming to get out. It was 8:45 always and I wondered what warranted that strange occurrence, whether it was something greater than a slowing of gears or the forgetfulness of the technician. I wondered if the clock was like a heart, pulsing away with the stacked lines of a ribcage; always strong and steady, but eventually gave up trying to mimic Time, just like a heart would give up myself. Now it’s always 8:45 and not a second too late.