There’s a very narrow gap between the clock and the bed. But it’s where I like to stand (extremely straight with my hands by my side) facing the window. I’m listening carefully to the tick of the clock. (In truth, and at this stage there’s no point in lying, I’m not sure if the tick is coming from the clock, or from inside my mouth, or from another clock inside my stomach). The pigeons on the windowsill are listening too. They’re waiting for the clock to stop, or for the hands to get confused about whether to move forwards or backwards. When this happens, the incorrect sound, which might also be a kind of silence, will coincide with my legs collapsing. (I haven’t moved from this spot for several days, and my legs have gotten very skinny). I’ll fall to the floor, crack my head open, and the pigeons will join me in the gap between the clock and the bed, where they’ll pluck away at whatever is left of me. And when they’re done, the hands of the clock will continue turning, and the gap will narrow until it’s completely closed.