Six in the evening has rolled around, without chime or tick or tock - smoothly run the hands of the office clock. Look at it this way, he tells himself: I have to get that done - sure I'll be home late tonight - but tomorrow I don't have to get up early - look to the weekend - then I'll have some fun - look at it -

Hands, hands, hands of the clock, I envy you not. All you do is point at numbers, the symptom that shows time its malady: that it is forever dying. Hands, hands, hands of the clock, you'd curl yourself up if you could, into a little ball, warm, blind, and blissfully without future or memory. But the eyes see the happy fist, count up the fingers, and announce it all as only temporary.