Tick. Death. Tock. Life. Tick. Start. Tock. Reset. Tick..Tock the wasted words lay spent on a sheaf of parchment, etched with ink equal parts shame and doubt. The pages curl behind the fury of an angry quill, then stretched to meet a wary mien. The artist sighs. He hates his work. Nickel sized tears filter the lines, the quill sleeps against the naked wood. Rusty hands fumble, the pages slip and dive past the old writer. The crumpled mass below claims another victim.