The Animarion

It was an inane thought, but I always believed my life would end when the hands of the great clock seized up and stopped moving. The ticking monstrosity was never something that I particularly admired, or even liked, but its overbearing presence across the side of the building I worked in certainly left its mark on the walls of my subconscious. Like the heartbeat of the factory itself, the persistent thrum of gears locking and turning would pound into your head until it was little more than a scrap of the background. And, as unnatural as it was, it became comforting. I thought perhaps, if the clock stopped, the sheer silence alone would be enough to drive me to madness. But it has been six years since the hands have shifted and I still appear to be functioning, scarcely.

I hate to admit it, but it is still a somber feeling to be reminded that I outlasted the greatest machine ever to come to existence in this factory.