16 April 2012
At night I wind down and pull my head off. Then I put my head in a box where I keep my special things. I found a snail shell out in the wild once, and here it lies, jumbled up with old string and a rusty key. I keep looking for her. Every day I wander the streets, clambering over rubble and old brickwork and the sleeping remnants of what were once people. Their bones crunch underneath my feet when I step on them. I am looking for her, and as hopeful as I am, I know my chances are slim. She probably lived and died down there, in the valley where the bombs dropped and the fires spread. That was years ago now. I forget precisely how long. My clockwork head is winding down. My days grow shorter now. Even I of the clockwork cannot wander forever. Do you think I'll find her?
Clockwork. • Opuss № I