She had finally found her refuge, the only conceivable place
She sat, her back leaning against the clock, convinced she’d disappear
She hid her knees under the dress and dug her face among her mop of hair
She trusted that time wouldn’t see her
And she witnessed how, beyond there, history cycled
She had found that shelter,
but the presence of time was advised by her own heart throbs
She screamed
She screamed along time and along dimensions,
not to hear the ticking, not to grieve sensations
She stop hearing her own beats and thought “Do I live?”
But she couldn’t stop the howling
She commited to regard, from behind the clock, how everything mutated
But she felt unafected, nothing was her concern no more
She thought to see TheOthers
coming close
She imagined she was reading their lips, hushed by the scream, saying “that is just another hole”
What do TheOthers know.
the Syndrome 