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The brain-melting, rhythmic ticks of a loud clock was—and still is—one of the most painful things I come across. What is it about the consistent one second interval of a timepiece that drives me insane? Is it the persistence? Is it the psychotic quality of an act being repeated tirelessly without stop that fills me with so much unease?
Clocks, watches, drops of water from a leaking faucet or the unbalanced whirl of a fan. Even my own heartbeat against my chest, or the blood inside the arteries of a headache-ailed head. Rhythms, terrible acts weighted against time. Monotonous, mechanical in quality even if biological in nature.
Awful.