chalkdog
untitled
It’s the gears. The gears and the mainsprings and the cams and the cogs and the sprockets and all those other brass geegaws and doodads. It’s the clockworks, all so orderly and neat and precise. So perfect and perfectly functional.
And so very rewindable (which may not be an actual word, which may only be a sound, but it says precisely what I mean). When it runs down, you rewind it and it continues on tick tick tick, same as it ever was, same as it ever was.
Until it doesn’t. Until it fails. Until it stops. And then it’s just pieces. Just beautiful pieces, defined by their individual elegance and harmony and symmetry. Defined by what they are instead of what they do.
So many types of beauty, if only you look.
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