The antique clock expected to live in generations of its previous family, yet there it was in the shop of treasures, waiting for someone to love it enough to keep it and pass it on.
I can hear the antique clock when all else is still. It's the only kind of tock and tick that relaxes this heart.
You can buy one of those new clocks this week and replace it the next. I prefer something that's gonna last, something that took a craftsman skill to make. I want an antique clock that was a labour of love rather than some automated factory crud.
The clock was an antique, that old deep wood and classic curvy shape. It more hugged the old mantle than simply sat there. It was a thing of beauty that would last. It had soul.
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