It's Not A Real Name," She Says.

At The Center, Where A Cuckoo Bird Would Live In A More Traditional Timepiece, Is The Juggler. Dressed In Harlequin Style With A Grey Mask, He Juggles Shiny Silver Balls That Correspond To Each Hour. As The Clock Chimes, Another Ball Joins The Rest Until At Midnight He Juggles Twelve Balls In A Complex Pattern. After Midnight The Clock Begins Once More To Fold In Upon Itself. The Face Lightens And The Clouds Return. The Number Of Juggled Balls Decreases Until The Juggler Himself Vanishes. By Noon It Is A Clock Again, And No Longer A Dream.

Why Haven’t You Asked Me How I Do My Tricks?” Celia Asks, Once They Have Reached The Point Where She Is Certain He Is Not Simply Being Polite About The Matter. “because I Do Not Wish To Know,” He Says. “i Prefer To Remain Unenlightened, To Better Remain In The Dark.

I Suppose There Will Never Be A Lack Of Things To Say, Of Stories To Be Told And Shared.

I Draft Quickly And Then Revise, A Lot.

The Rain Increases And Umbrellas Sprout Like Mushrooms Amongst The Graves.