Between each second’s tick of an antique clock resides an eternity—a quiet forever without despair, where all of our departed friends and loved ones have gathered. And let’s imagine, contrary to Sylvia Plath, that this isn’t a place where stars are “grinding, crumb by crumb, our own grist down to its bony face.” What if, instead, between each tick of the clock, the dead gather to play croquet and lavish one another with compliments?
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