What is it that makes us tick?
The thing inside us that churns on rusted cogs.
All it takes is one lose bolt and the whole thing falls apart...
That’s all we are really, a clock.
As our time goes by, we get older. More fragile. Vulnerable.
Smaller things become bigger problems. Everything builds up ontop of each other, until eventually we just stop. Or break.
All that separates the sane from the insane are the amounts of lose bolts inside us.
We all have the potential of becoming psychopaths; all we need is someone to shake our casings, to help twist those bolts out of place until things just start to fall apart. Pieces go missing. The sounds of syncopated ticking become all that you hear. You try covering the sounds by listening to the crunching of cogs inside you, which turn to screams in your head. The music of murder. You force your suffering into those around you. Until your left with no choice but to end the ticking for good. Silence.

Every clock has only a certain amount of ticks in its life time, how many do you have left?
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock…