There exists a broken clock in a broken house, it doesn’t tick and it doesn’t tock. It’s pendulum attempts to swing above a ragged floor — uneven and marred by patches of mold and hoary footprints.
The wind blows through the jagged edges of long-shattered windows, then caresses the barely-hinged remnant of a door — causing it to slam against its former self.
The cuckoo bird bursts forward, it screams.
— Bastian Espada
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