I once
heard that everything has a story. Every little thing somehow knows something; it
has had a life not far from yours.
A ball has been played with, the window looked out of and the bed slept in; they all have a past.
The copy machine has copied, the lamp has lit, and the clock has said its tick-tock.
I try to be original all the time, buzzed the copy machine. It just doesn’t seem to be effective, somehow. Why is that?, it bleeped.
Then just look at me!, lighted the lamp in its cover. All day I am trying as hard as I can to brighten up everyone’s day, yet they’re doing nothing but just sobbing lifelessly around, looking sad. What is it with these people?, the lamp shined on. Cheer up, it glowed, let some light in!
The copy machine and the lamp stood and hang in silence for a moment; a timeless moment.
Meanwhile, the big wall clock oversaw and heard them, and it began tinkering and clicking and windingly regulating its miniature body parts. Everything thought. The hour-hand and the minute-hand even slowed down milliseconds in an attempt to figure something out. This slowing down made them feel funny.
Hey, minute-hand!, said the hour-hand with an instant tick. I really miss you up here.
But the minute-hand was too far away for it to hear the wails of the hour-hand.
It was half past eleven, and the hour-hand and the minute-hand was at their farthest distance from each other. They were in this position only one minute of every hour, pointing in each their own direction, and every new moment of absolute severance felt like ages to them, and not the minute it actually lasted.
At this time of day everything would be the gloomily darkest darkly dark if it wasn’t for the lamp.
Why can’t I be original, bleepblopped the copy machine in mechanical agony.
‘Cause you’re not made with any such purpose.
The copy machine inked in shock over this unexpected voice. The wall clock had spoken. It went on in an accurate, strict tone of ticking: You were designed for a whole other function, little copier. You have been constructed with the intention of reproducing, not creating. This is your raison d'être, copier, as mine is to help promoting punctuality in these strange, untimely times. I am always on time, the wall clock proclaimed, as it struck a quarter to twelve.
The copy machine was deeply bewildered, and found that it suddenly didn’t know black from white anymore.
I think I’m broken, clanked the puzzled copy machine, and as it tried to print the simplest document to test itself, it only outspat a messy wilderness of ink stains.
At that very second the lamp shined a spotlight on the outspat paper with the disorganized ink-maze, and as a sunbeam cutting through the overclouded sky, the lamp lit up the only actual new product the copy machine had ever created.
At last, the copy machine had been truly original.
As the wall clock smilingly and unconfirmed was about to strike twelve, its two accurate hands were longing for the company of each other.
Because suffering in the highs and lows of their long distance relationship, the hour-hand and the minute-hand could only ever share brief romantic intervals together.
A ball has been played with, the window looked out of and the bed slept in; they all have a past.
The copy machine has copied, the lamp has lit, and the clock has said its tick-tock.
I try to be original all the time, buzzed the copy machine. It just doesn’t seem to be effective, somehow. Why is that?, it bleeped.
Then just look at me!, lighted the lamp in its cover. All day I am trying as hard as I can to brighten up everyone’s day, yet they’re doing nothing but just sobbing lifelessly around, looking sad. What is it with these people?, the lamp shined on. Cheer up, it glowed, let some light in!
The copy machine and the lamp stood and hang in silence for a moment; a timeless moment.
Meanwhile, the big wall clock oversaw and heard them, and it began tinkering and clicking and windingly regulating its miniature body parts. Everything thought. The hour-hand and the minute-hand even slowed down milliseconds in an attempt to figure something out. This slowing down made them feel funny.
Hey, minute-hand!, said the hour-hand with an instant tick. I really miss you up here.
But the minute-hand was too far away for it to hear the wails of the hour-hand.
It was half past eleven, and the hour-hand and the minute-hand was at their farthest distance from each other. They were in this position only one minute of every hour, pointing in each their own direction, and every new moment of absolute severance felt like ages to them, and not the minute it actually lasted.
At this time of day everything would be the gloomily darkest darkly dark if it wasn’t for the lamp.
Why can’t I be original, bleepblopped the copy machine in mechanical agony.
‘Cause you’re not made with any such purpose.
The copy machine inked in shock over this unexpected voice. The wall clock had spoken. It went on in an accurate, strict tone of ticking: You were designed for a whole other function, little copier. You have been constructed with the intention of reproducing, not creating. This is your raison d'être, copier, as mine is to help promoting punctuality in these strange, untimely times. I am always on time, the wall clock proclaimed, as it struck a quarter to twelve.
The copy machine was deeply bewildered, and found that it suddenly didn’t know black from white anymore.
I think I’m broken, clanked the puzzled copy machine, and as it tried to print the simplest document to test itself, it only outspat a messy wilderness of ink stains.
At that very second the lamp shined a spotlight on the outspat paper with the disorganized ink-maze, and as a sunbeam cutting through the overclouded sky, the lamp lit up the only actual new product the copy machine had ever created.
At last, the copy machine had been truly original.
As the wall clock smilingly and unconfirmed was about to strike twelve, its two accurate hands were longing for the company of each other.
Because suffering in the highs and lows of their long distance relationship, the hour-hand and the minute-hand could only ever share brief romantic intervals together.
But at midnight, on the dot, the wall clock's battery died.
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