A Station Made of Clocks

Lyrics

The schedule is silver and the ink is mercury.
Running. Always running.
The departure is critical. For what, I have forgotten.
Only the lateness remains.
The grand hall is a museum of hurry.
The walls are Roman numerals, the ceiling a pendulum that never swings.
Every floor tile is a brass second hand, sweeping in place.
A ticket machine prints out receipts of my own heartbeats, each one timestamped a moment too late.
The arrivals board lists cities that are also paradoxes: The Library of Alexandria (Now Boarding), The Hotel of Infinite Doors (Delayed).
I am looking for the train to the place just before I was born.
The station breathes in ticks and talks in tocks.
Every gear grinds a judgment.
Late. Late. You are late for the final revision of yourself.
And the conductor wears a silver mask with no mouth.
I check my wrist but there is only smooth skin.
I pull a pocket watch from the air, its case is warm obsidian.
The hands say 4:17. I blink. It still says 4:17.
I tap the glass and the hands dissolve into the face, which is now a mirror.
My reflection has too many eyes, and they are all counting.
I looked at my hand to count the fingers but the fingers were made of ticking clock hands. Five of them. All pointing to 4:17.
Wait. This feeling.
The seams of the world are showing.
I remember the lesson. The anchor.
My palms meet. Not skin on skin, but static on static.
I rub them together. Faster. A friction that makes no heat.
It builds into light. A cold silver fire I can hold.
The glow spills from my hands, washing over the station.
And the station stops breathing. The talking ceases.
Every gear holds its position.
Not late. Never late. There is no final revision.
The conductor’s silver mask cracks and falls away into dust.
The light from my palms paints the clock faces blank, white, absolute.
The platform stretches. It loses its edges, becoming a runway of polished chrome.
It reflects a ceiling of stars I hadn’t noticed.
I don’t run. I just lift.
The air is thick and supportive, like mercury.
Below me, the Station Made of Clocks is a perfect, silent photograph of an anxiety I no longer own.
The flight path is a straight line into the index of dreams I haven't had yet.