Nine and Ten

And when the clock strikes nine, I always know it is time. The rush of adrenaline spying thru the pushback mountain of the nerves and challenging the incongruent lapse of thoughts - verifying the familiar presence of absence.

And when the clock strikes ten, it weighs on to me like Big Ben. The washing of streets builds up the memories of those cunning rivers passing by the sides, that used to bring in the chirpy murmur of the usual suspects of Clementine.