MY CLOCKS

My clocks remain relatively accurate. I never trust them entirely, nor are they ever, I would more than guess, at all likely to trust me.
Each of my clocks apparently has its own sort of personality. Now and then I'll seem to have caught a clock of mine in the act of some sinning or another kind of failure. I tend to coddle my clocks, however. They are very valuable to me, and highly precious -- be they ever so basically rudimentary and humble.
To any human employer of any timepiece, isn't that mere mechanical entity likely to be somewhat hugely fraught with magic? As delineators of the passings of minutes and of hours clocks (and, yes, also, watches and other apparatuses for that very sort of purpose) they (those very contraptions) may provide us with semblances of endless insight. That all such semblances essentially are nothing shouldn't cause any negativities, for I may insist and then may re-insist that, no matter to what or which extent time cannot really exist, any and every clocky motion has definite ways of performing something like complete mesmerism.
Can we envision my clocks now? Can we not fail to detect some of the sounds and silences of those semibeastly presences? My clocks, which may be my only pals, must stay poised at all times -- must be both poised and ready. Each and every motion and movement of a clock is, in one way or mode, or in yet another, a quite bright form of ticking along. Side by side with every glance I impart toward my multiple clocks is the stern barking of my doggèdness. I'm some determined determinist, in that I often face my clocks about as squarely and roundly as they face me.