...

The stories all around me, relinquished by imagination of the scribe. Questionable reason. Told from recent events? Or past, present, and future of the state of mind. Walls are plastered with the oracles. Propelled in black and white. All but one scribe, and all but all this work. Must be pleasureful, but, only sometimes.

Right now the clock's dusted, ounces of time dried and shriveled.