Hurry with the developing pictures.

The suns coming to set just like a mess on a canvas

There’s something beautiful about the abstract scheme

Play the refrained song to the bluish grey sky

Lay down and stare and watch what we call time, watch time fade

I'm looking forward for something extravagant in the lonely night

I am a clock that yearns for the counterclockwise

I refuse to admit the time at my hand

today my hands are  young, my fingers long, like they belong on  music

sometime my hands will be old,

and I hope, nay, pray

that I can still afford to refuse the time at my hand

Old, maybe wrinkled all stretched,

but still belonging to music

So I keep a strange faith for tomorrow

Tick. Tock.