12 markers,
12 days,
12 lonely hours
A solitaire hand tirelessly toils
Round and round
With a single sound
Foolishly running up and abound
Never finding end,
nor time to rest,
nor think nor feel nor mourn
It does only what it knows,
what it should,
what is innate,
what he thinks anyone else would.
For him time is frozen
and the world is dead
Cause no matter how much he moves,
nothing changes,
and everything stays the same.
The minutes are exhausting,
the hours are months never passing,
and existence is debt to be paid.
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