from Reaper Man by Terry Pratchett

Page 9.

And this is the room where the past pours into the future via the pinch of the now.

Timers line the walls. Not hour-glasses, although they have the same shape. Not egg-timers, such as you might buy as a souvenir attached to a small board with the name of the holiday resort of your choice jauntily inscribed on it by someone with the same sense of style as a jelly doughnut.

It’s not even sand in there. It’s seconds, endlessly humming the maybe into the was.

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