Going Nowhere He looked up, expecting nothing to have changed. He was half right. Everything was still where it had been, and nothing had materialised amongst it all, but the clock had stopped. Picking his paper up again, he got up, stepped over the bundles of grass and around the crates, and took the clock off the bulkhead. He tapped it twice, paused, and sighed. Sometimes he liked to tell himself the company cared. Sometimes.
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