The clock maker twists his hands upon his work. The hours go by with the silver string of love. Love brings its presence softly to the room with the wood of the floor which in essence loves the clock maker. And then a light stands in the room which comes from nothing and which is frozen and utterly without motion. A bird kisses him with the light thundering of the love of time. For in some eternal vision there is no past nor future, but all things are held as one. But no matter how the clock maker plays with the engines of how the cards of time are spent, he cannot but not grow older, as his hair has now turned silver. For by no work of a mortal shall mortals not come hither, and into the land of death.