We live in the age of clock’s dictatorship. Their quiet presence is everywhere. They are of same nature as we should but never manage to be. They are perfect workers, useful and always hard working, always busy, always in hurry, runnig somewhere, never waisting their time. Sleepless. Never waiting for anything. The handy manufactures of time. Their hands are most important for us, we watch them carefully every day. Yet not forever. This evening a little engine, one of milions, has stopped forever, and it’s bustling hands fell apart. It passed ultimately into Timelessness, and I noticed how beautiful it is without hands. It’s perfectly round disc rests finally in serenity, untainted by any noise and hurry. Their lovely tiny dots dance undisturbed in circles, accompanied by elegance of numbers, now meaningless. Ligth sparkles turn on clock’s surface into miniature rainbows, glorifying it’s passing.