It's true,
nothing tells you more about the state of things to come than the closing of another door, your face begins to show the mechanisms  that used to work so long ago, your hands have had that tremble that your father used to know and that was also long ago.

Each door that closes in the lock is another hand that moves, one more degree around the clock, one more sickening quick tick tock and a body shock, a heart beat, stop and look both ways, your days have reached the pendulum, swing which but any way you're done.

The state of things to come, how final is the death march reproduced by RCA on seven inches of black vinyl.

The mechanism is but a trick to show us when and if being sick would trip us into one more Autumn, falling with the leaves, leaves sand upon my face,
always the case we close that no one ever solves, each clue that's left revolves around, mechanically without a sound, more falling leaves, more sand, one more hand another stop, body shock, if and when we smash the clock, if and then and only then,
nothing happens, no one cares, he who dares just dares, nothing much in those affairs,
it's true. blow hot or cold, blue in the face
I  spread these loads and take the strain, the pain no longer bothers me, mechanic or mechanically,
I wonder if this means I'm free,
I wonder then, when will it start to bother me and will I care,
I and the pair of hands that switch the time and the hand that follows on in that line, dare to ask.