12:34

I've always noticed that everything changes at 12:34.

It's a hinge in time. The Crux of events.

And if they don't change at 12:34,

They never, ever do. They become a rent

in the fabric of time which we must mend,

that is – if we want to see the end.

Countless mugs of steaming tea came at 12:34.

My mum's ashes went to sea precisely at 12:34.

Whenever I turn my eyes to the local clock it's 12:34.

Whenever I wonder what fate has in her stock it's 12:34.

All the numbers added together make ten.

Isn't ten a number revered by most men?

For moving nothingness resides within.

In sequence the addition of the first and the next.

These numbers, since the world began, are in the texts.

I hold 12:34 to be the key

                                              to our innermost secrets.

12:34 it was when I was as good as dead in India.

12:34 it is when I usually brush my teeth.

12:34 it was when that grim bomb exploded in Libya.

12:34 it was when Macbeth met them on the heath.

12:34 is the exact time when you said you loved me.

1234 is the number of days our love lasted.

It's too ominous a time for it not to be watched.

It might well be then that something happens to me.

Am I bored out of my wits? Am I seeing things that aren't, that were never meant to be? Am I daydreaming? Wakewalking with my eyes closed? Sleepwalking with my eyes open? Have my senses become numb? Have my sentiments died without my noticing?

I'm falling apart, my friends. Something needs be done. No wonder...it is, indeed, 12:34, sharp.