The Golden Farce

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2026-08-20 02:45:23 -

The Golden Farce

The rain fell in sheets. It hammered the tin roof of the workshop. I did not look up. My hands moved. The chisel bit into the oak. The wood splintered. A clean break. I wiped my face. The blood was mixed with the rain. It ran into my eyes. It stung. I am a maker. I make things. Clocks, mostly. Small, ticking hearts of brass and wood. I live in the shadow of the smokestacks. The air tastes of...

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