You’re like…Like a clock with hands made of icicles…By midday…Even if you’re keeping perfect time, no one knows…They can’t see the mechanism…just an infuriating blank face…That refuses to answer simple questions!
He is gasping, red faced.
Perhaps that’s true, I reply, but who would buy such a unique clock and not want to preserve it? Only a delinquent owner would subject this marvel to heat and sunlight. You would live in an ice house and wear furs in August to cherish such craftsmanship.
His eyes bulge; tongue stammers.
I return the form to him, unstamped, and inform him it’s lunchtime.