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  • Writer's picturen0mad

Tick, Tick, Tick,

Tick, Tick, Tick, the hands of time creep every forward, devouring, like a lit fuse racing towards its charge. It’s raison d'etre, death, and a step into the void. We must all listen to the sound of time passing and know that we are one tick closer, one tick shorter, one tick less ...of life.

When Harry’s eyes opened that morning, he knew today would be his last. He knew there would be no tomorrow for him. No more coffee and croissant by the Seine, no more strolls in the park, no more kisses by the fountain, no more doves at sunset, for this was the setting of his sun. His fuse was nearing the end of its race. His life was nearing its completion. He took a deep breath in, and let it out slowly and evenly, counting the seconds of his exhalation. Seconds now lost to him forever, like the days of a calendar ripped and discarded, one by one.

If this must be his last day, he would spend his time wisely. He would see her one last time. Would wring as much from the day as it was possible to squeeze. He sprang from his bed with renewed vigour. There was not a second to lose.

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