like it was getting on with its own, private life, not caring about Conor at all.
He approached it slowly, his fists clenched. It was only a moment before it would bong bong bong its way to nine o’clock.
Conor stood there until the second hand glided around and reached the twelve.
The instant the bongs were about to start, he grabbed the pendulum, holding it at the high point of its swing.
He could hear the mechanism of the clock complaining as the first b of the interrupted bong hovered in the air.
With his free hand, Conor reached up and pushed the minute and second hands forward from the twelve.
They resisted but he pushed harder, hearing a loud click as he did so that didn’t sound especially good.
The minute and second hands sprung suddenly free from whatever was holding them back,
and Conor spun them around, catching up with the hour hand and taking it along, too,
hearing more complaining half-bongs and painful clicks from deep inside the wooden case.
He could feel drops of sweat gathering on his forehead and his chest felt like it was glowing with heat.
(–almost like being in the nightmare, that same feverish blur of the world slipping off its axis,
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