I feel like a god up here, balanced above, like the ying and yang of the universe has gathered in my high eyre. I look down at the scurrying worker ants as they pull and churn across the marble floor below all ignorant of my watch. I imagine an owl surveying its prey, selecting the weaker of the mass, the ones on the edges, ripe for the plucking. I wonder about Father Time. About the time lord. About life and about death. I hold the giant hands of time beneath my fingers and wonder what would happen if I froze time. Would they all stop below mid-step? Would they all freeze, one unseen shoe mid-stride? What if I pushed the hands backwards would they all stumble back a second, or a minute, or would they all just gain a lifetime?
“Jack. Have you finished? Those hands need painting. Time won’t wait. They need us done yesterday. Stop daydreaming boy.” Yelled my Time Lord.
[Task to write about a place viewed from an odd angle for example a clock repairer in a railway station high overhead. - Cambridge ICE]