Hands of the wall clock tick, the sound forever tugs at the sense of detachment nightfall provides; it does so vehemently when the lights are turned off, people have begun to lay beds, a mild swoosh of autumnal wind is flourishing through the broken attic window knocking one's mind off the track drawn up by an alliance of warm mattress, sheep-skin blanket, the sluggish flow of blood through limbs, settled rhythm of a beat inside one's chest.
You have grown weary of the sound from wall clock over years, asking your mother when you were still in upper kindergarten: Can't we let go of the sound, what does this tick-tick stand for?
"It stands for time, gobuer," her reply rings in your head.