The clock tower blasphemes against the calm of the reconstructed nature I stride across. The gong of the disciplined bells does not echo against anybody’s footsteps. Instead it thuds several times, like a warning against the chemical oxygen that I breathe, suggesting that I now have lesser air to breathe from than an hour ago. I nervously tug on the strap of my tattered old bag that my mother bought from a Chinese street stall over a decade ago. Carrying a decade of leather rust in which cookies lie crumbled like thunderous clouds and receipts lie scattered like discarded wallpaper; on my arm is a chunk of time that had been discarded across a lonesome decade. The buckles jingle aimlessly in the city street jungle of controlled chaos, trying to imitate the nuisance of the clock tower.
A man accidentally bumps into me, disturbing the balance of the angel that sits on my right shoulder, who scribbles down my good deeds, knocking down my bag of time, and I am again reminded of the bells that will echo when death harasses life and drains his and my own body of our hot blood, that buzzes beneath our multi-colored skins. I pull my bag upon my shoulder again, shake my flooded umbrella and walk on.