The Daily Sentence, Stream of Consciousness

Words disappear, the herringbone closet—change exceeds boundaries flying with wheels under—the nethermost regions becoming uncomfortable—concise in contentment, complete in clockwork, autonomously clicking in the blink of an eye after seconds ticking about its dependent dependability:  ticking, tock, ticking—each alarmist propaganda or prophetic omen against the final hour—the hour before, and the hour before that hour, and the hour before that hour, and the hour before that hour, ad nearly infinitum, forgotten.