That Time of Year
The clockwork of the year is rusty after a summer spent in blissful timlessness.
Everywhere the cogs of the machine resist sudden jostling and bemoan the meer mention of clinking back into place.
Squeaky wheels receive their share of oil, and the overused and broken parts are replaced.
The clock will hum smoothly, as if time never touched it's gears, until the turn of the season slows the clock's rapid advancement once more.
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