There were no numbers on the clock. No hour hands either. It was just a circular contraption that chimed randomly. The flawless fluorescent lighting of his cell never gave away anything about what was happening outside. Everything was white, the chairs, the tables, his clothes, the floor... The only things that weren't was his hair and eyeballs. He yearned for some colour in his life. But wait, didn't the story start with a clock? That contraption was still there and it chimed startling him from his dreams filled with colours.
Looks like the fog just spared my window to the street. The street lights looked liking smokers in an alley. The cobble stones were wet from the drizzle. The street dogs were busy barking at something. A breeze just unsettled the garbage can's lid. My world hasn't changed much. Everyday I look for some sign of change. Nothing seems to change. I have grown bald. My eyesight has dimmed. My kids have grown. The window pane has gathered dust and dirt. The spiders have evolved. Some old buildings have given way to new ones. The neon signs have gone. Still nothing seem to have changed. Change they say has to come from within. But then, what can come out of an empty narrow dead end?
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