Time To Kill
One's psyche, freshly dragged into consciousness, is a delicate thing. Who am I? Where am I? What's that thing and what is it trying to tell me? Slowly the pieces fall into place. That thing is a clock, and the numbers on its display count ever upward. I have responsibilities, work, school, etc. sigh Justifications for ignoring the clock's pleas follow. I don't have to take a shower… I can sleep another fifteen minutes… I don't have to wear clothes today, another five minutes… Sometimes, after all hope is lost, it is realized the clock is actually mistaken. Against all odds, the reliable gadget really has howled in error. There is nothing so elating as triumphing over the machine, and slipping back into the peaceful surreality of dreams without obligation to the waking world.