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The clock on my bed stand stopped working a few months ago. One tick, and suddenly the hands were moving in the opposite direction. My throat grew tight as I watched time begin to reverse.

Nothing I did seemed to help. If John B. McLemore was still alive, I would call him up and ask him to take a look. I'm no horologist, and the screws and cogs of time make less sense to me than the existence of God.

Everything I've never told you has turned into everything I write about.

A clock is a cruel mistress, especially when she pivots on her journey. the hands cut into my skin as they pull me back into buried memories. Before I know it, I'm reliving the seconds of five years past.

Please help me, John B. There are decisions and revisions I need a minute to make. I can't move forward until the machine lets me, and the ticking in my chest is making it hard to think straight.

I wanted to tell you, but the time was never right.

Silence pulls us together in a long moment. I remember once how I ached to freeze a frame like this and live in the gaps between seconds. Now, I find myself ready to sprint to the next hour.

Maybe in the next life, we'll get it right. Or maybe this is how it was always meant to be. I guess we'll only know when we're six feet under.

And maybe it's best if you never understand.

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