She watched the pendulum swaying; back-and-forth, back-and-forth, the incessant ticking once maddening now soothing, almost comforting; a constant beacon to cling to when the light faded and her world turned to black; but the beacon an illusion, just as time itself. A man-made tracking device used to run our lives by; but insignificant in the scheme of existence, as we edge ever so closer to the precipice of reality.

And in her mind she heard the chime, ringing out upon the hour, the half-hour and that delicate tune whenever the doorbell was pressed; the main focal point upon entering the foyer; bejeweled adornments gracing their wrists, worn on chains or pinned to lapels. All consuming, ruling their lives; moving too quickly, conscious of its ever-present looming, watching helplessly as it passed them by.

In the end with nothing left to cling to, no hope of ever leaving alive; they did the only thing then knew, trying to buy themselves more time. A simple truth not to be grasped in the whole long lot of their lives; that time could not be bought in any form.

Yet the magnificently expensive grandfather clock chimes upon the hour, bearing witness to life’s long arduous journey; gracing the lobby of the old folk’s home, with their names etched upon a plate of gold.