My clock is a hydra. When an hour and minute hand dissipate, two more sets of hour and minute hands grow from the center. Yet coping with vanity is just that, vain, and the day recedes forever swiftly below the hot horizon. One of the hands is the title of a book I’m reading, while the next one is a rolled up, fact-based summary of my past. Another points to a pair of eyes I could stare at until I see the smoke and gears behind the sparks. The next one is a chord progression that howls like a subway song. My hands are feeling somewhat stronger, a little sturdier. A little rockier. Like a child to a kaleidoscope, my abandon is myopically inclined. Perhaps I’ll build a collage as a way of discarding the moments I hoard, clearing what holds them for something more tangible, like clock hands.