i could tell the time at an early age; yet, i could never tell the misery of the hour hand of the clock - that lies in wait... for what i imagine, must feel like an eternity, at the mercy of the minute hand to finish a full round - as it is, in turn, at the mercy of the second hand; only to move but a fraction of an inch on its axis: so it can be worthy of its name.
surely, it’s the loneliest of the three hands; yet, perhaps, also the wisest - for it knows what’d happen if it ceases to move - even for an hour, as it were. you see, the illusion of a moving clock is maintained only by the hour hand. the minute hand could stop for a minute - and we wouldn’t mind much; the second hand could stop for a second - no harm done; but if the hour hand stops for an hour - well, we’d notice.
i can never really tell the time now; just the hour in which i exist.