The Turbine Hall at Tate Modern

Keeping Time

Today’s exercise, pulled from the salt-pig’s mouth is: Clocks/Timekeeping – something I’m not particularly good at, but here goes:

Clocking

It is current and will fizzle complacently like Sauerkraut on a windowsill, but return, always return, there is really nothing for it. Seasonally speaking it’s an idiom of flaccid syllables but enough loved to hang around, spillage of habits from the nunnery, coincidental as all. Tethers of emancipation tighten to the cushion, the plump chair beckons idly but there is light now even in darkness there is no recourse. Measure of measuring for the pleasure of measurement, and the parsnips remain unbuttered.

Bookshelves
Fantasy corner.

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