Tick, Tick, Said the Clock

It's a sad state of affairs when a man finds himself sorting ammunition at two in the morning. Just a few minutes ago I stood from where I'd been bent over an old ammo box, my hands filthy black. I moaned and glanced at the clock and asked it why in the name of all that's holy could I not sleep, perchance to dream.

It only replied, tick, tick, and tick.

Even the owls remain silent.

Stephen