Carved in Stone

 

 



 

Somewhere between the tic and the tock we live our lives. 

 

The muted sounds of time are always present in the background, like that of a little hammer and chisel chipping away at our sculpted existence;

Tic – tock, tic – tock, little crumbs falling away with each strike. 

 

There are small bits of good health, tiny fragments of memory being chipped and broken into something less. 

We go to great lengths to keep track.  We hang clocks on our walls; we build watches and strap them to our wrists.  We design the tracking of time into our cell phones so in the shadow of every conversation our subconscious can maintain the cadence of our passing.

 

  Tic – tock, tic – tock.

 

The distance between the watchmaker and the undertaker is always measured in time.  A quite precise movement keeping us on track, right up until we become

the late...