Twenty-four stand in a state of almost-but-not-quite silence, and then it is shattered, and twenty-four step forward into the flow. Numbers stare, a line below them winks, and nothing is done to stop it. Heavy ink bleeds through paper, and necessary tools are set aside because they're not necessary right now. A rumbling voice is heard four feet behind. Today, things that shouldn't matter, do. Two minutes after nine bells is like sitting in clay mud. Two feet ahead and three to the right is a green blackboard marked with stale chalk. We leave plenty of space in this world for things that have lost purpose.
