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.
All the rants and raves from a brain that has endured decades of anthropological abuse.