Clockwork

Death, prolonged by a return to infancy, has more patience than I.
Reborn into a caustic world with a name that inspires nothing, pulling meaning from pieces, consumed by repetition and outmaneuvered by my consciousness, my life isn't a trial; it's an eternity.

But I'm just a child. All I have is time.

And time will save me, through this machine.
Time will enslave me through this machine.
Its movement is mine.
And as we fall gracefully upward through the hourglass, no comforting melody invites us.
How long can a voyage take in a vacuum without time?