I remember a room I had once spent some time in.
I say once as I don't recall when. Just the sensations.
It was an avacado green room, small and boxy - Clinging to over loaded shelves, which maternally bore hardcovered books, plastic framed photographs, faded scarves and a small ornamental clock.
I remember the clock, yes.
A small white construction, china no doubt.
It seemed to mock grandfather clocks of old in a mass produced and generic way.
A garish gold laquer molested the surface in bold lines of regal splendor and small china flowers burst from the trunk.
Superceding this design was the face of the mechanism, small and symmetrical it proudly sat set within the upper region of the body, as if all purpose in the world was to cradle the precious measure of chronological order. Within it, it held the ornate hands, they no longer move now though - a wasteful end.
But reflected in it's eye were blades.
I remember leaning back in my chair.
A ceiling fan whirred with a low pitch buzzz a