Like an exquisite clockwork that never ceases, every cog in the gear never missing the toothed.

Revolving and turning about its axis, with mundane predictability and constant velocity.

The “1” never misses the “2”, yet it never sees the “3”. And slowly it ticks and dwindles away, in seconds, minutes and hours in routine.

Circling and racing, within an endless loop; the end apparently near, yet hardly apparent. The beauty of the clock face is a mere façade, concealing the truth that lies beneath.

When will “1” see beyond “2” and “12”?

When shall i break out from this cell?