Clock

I watch the clock, waiting for a minute to tick by. Waiting for my life to change - one way or another. It doesn't. I'm not surprised.

Black checkmarks of monotony cover everything I do, spilling from my fingers like old blood. I find myself wasting away. Is work my entire existence?

My shift ends and clouds are dark and heavy, but they never break with rain. The sky mirrors my life; I don't have anything to give, either.

The clock seems to be frozen as I rock my numbered days away, pouring empty memories into a shakily crocheted blanket. Why I'm making it, I don't know. I have no children, no grandchildren, no legacy at all. I will die as I've lived: boring and alone.