The Last Page

It is 12 o'clock. Under the miserable, unhopeful and defeatist marker, there stands an awe-inspiring tree. Its trunk is enormous, its leaves float on the branches reducing peripheral awareness, elegantly hypnotizing anyone who looks at them. This tree irradiates the wasteland with its spectacular sparkle, trying to fight and resist the desolate nature's mistake which suffused everything except that shrub. As the frond falls from the tree, it sends the world into a trance and as it falls through the air and falls on the ground, it is almost as if it creates its own ecosystem, a cupola that defends its light and ambition from the infernal, fallaciously-caused sullen emptiness. And the clock strikes again, now with its last reserve of energy. It is 13 o'clock, like it mattered. This last vibration caused by the clock was the strongest one, to signify its inconsolable fall. The vibration from the bell was followed by another one, which crushed the rock underneath the clock; the wasteland heard the clock strike for its utmost time. The 'clock' was defeated by the surrounding, it was perfused by the lifeless dust bowl cholerically; when the beam fell on the isolated grains it built a gravestone for itself, and the surrounding dunes, like hungry demons, decimated the rock, leaving small traces of the lifeless clock, which will be remembered as a vital beacon of hope. Horrified, the tree had no more value. It tried to bulwark the 'clock' from the unavoidable, fighting everyday, but now all that's left is a pole of lifeless wood and as the tree falls, it does it placidly, with passion.