It's coming. I can feel it from across the river. The face of the clock has an inscription and I'm straining to read it properly. Strangers walk in and out all the time; they say it's urgent, but leave no explanation. It's coming nearer. I can smell it. There's a tree growing in the corner of the room; the branches are like sheet crystal, and now I know what it says on the clock face. I tear myself loose, walk a twilit London street, stop under a footbridge, marvel at its flimsiness. The entrance is blocked by an enormous kick-drum. I go back. It's approaching, more determined than before. Sorry, judge; it's not that I don't know or don't want to tell you. But nothing makes sense unless you go see for yourself. It's coming, squelching down the riverbank on the far side, dragging itself this way. And you must face the clock while it's still moving.
