The air is thick, choking, as the clock winds down, each tock slower than the last. The owner's hand refuses to wind once more the coil spring of life, condemning a slow death. The gears worn with age, the brass tarnished and dull, the crystal scratched. The hands tick jerky and uncertain, knowing the vague terror of uncertainty. Locked into each turning of the cogs, unable to escape an inexorable fate. And every passing moment, the tension grows into self-doubt and introversion, every cycle the same. Until one day, it stops, and only the unspoken why echoes into the night.