'I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.'
There are several clocks recording my life. The first two tick by security of truth and richness of freedom. Virtual tides, the third one bleeds. General acceptance and beautiful words counts the fourth. The oldest is set for instinctive knowledge and links to the past. All clocks are made of strange circumstances and the accomplished structure of what is yet to come.
The big golden one tallies splashes of my creative fire and moments of commitment to my own identity, which often wanders in the celestial sphere. Another records hallucinated trust, and times when I just feel too-cool-for-school. Dreams in one tense are captured by the one coloured blue funk. That which I least like weights my habits, and itches, and soon-to-be-scrapped plans. Industrial conditioning is replicated by the one on my wrist, shiny pink and black. One clock counts cherries I stole from the cakes. One records blueprints of the best songs. There is one which alarms to finish last night's sentence, as well. And one which indicates time to visit Home. And one aloof, standing still, afraid to start and lose the count...
I circle like a moon around these timely planets which measure formation of me as mature well written poetry, on the most expensive paper, under wet light. When time moves beyond all these clocks, the principle of peaceful simplicity proceeds, calculating my terrific voyage. And so I set an emergency alarm by this one: to raise me up a level higher if the storm comes.
I have several more illustrating my Soul:
Happy times because of Android out of reach
Organic lavender fields and her majesty the Sea
Summer's heat that boils tea
Peripheral mist stranding me
Silent steps down and loud ones, up
Butterflies below waist
Fairytales from the clouds
Honey syllables and non profit times,
the sounds of Venice Carnival...
all clocks gives sense to
There was nowhere to go but everywhere,
so just keep on rolling under the stars.
-Jack Kerouac, 'On the Road'