We're discussing the grandfather clock when I ask what time it is.
This strikes the bar boss as odd, as we're standing in front of a functioning clock, keeping time perfectly purely by weight.
I see the arrows. I see them point. I see them move. They mean nothing to me.
"It's not time," I try to explain. "It's a symbol of time." I can't decide if my brain experiences life too literally or too symbolically to interpret the meaning instantly.
Don't ask me how I can bullshit a thesis on the displaced patriotism within Vonnegut's nihilist motif but can't read an analog clock.
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In other news, how timely!; I can't stop listening to Sam Cooke, and holy shit we're in the middle of a fucking lightning storm! To the beach!!!