It was a brassy wind-up clock, the kind with a butterfly key. It sat there in crepuscular rays, bathed in fingerprinted dust. Tick tock. Tic tock. How tinny was its heartbeat, how small it was in the vastness of the room. No batteries required, simply a regular and repeated twist, crunching its cogs back into tension's repose. At least it's singing told us that he'd been here in the last day or so.
The greatest aspect of working from home was no more alarm clock. I would wake when I woke, and no matter if it was early or late, that was okay. The day began when it began and ended when it ended. So much stress evaporated. In a short while I awoke at the same time, give or take a few minutes, each day anyway. I developed my own rhythm, my own sense of time that had more to do with nature and my own biology.
The alarm clock in platinum-chrome sings each morning, signalling the transition from sleepy dreams to wakeful happenings.
The alarm clock sits as happy companion to my bed, the friend who shakes me gently by the shoulders at sun up.
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