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The outside rim of my body, smooth as the Moon sailing across the night sky.
My hands, ticking furiously like a fish on the line.
My tall slim body, rough and vulnerable.
Heroic numbers saving mortals every day, revealing what humans know as the time.
The colour of my body, exquisite and unique as a lion cub.
I am kept in an old decayed attic.
My colour slowly gets drained over the long years. 
The history of my past is majestic and terrifying.
My owner tells stories of how William Clement created me from ancient wood.
My precious glass coating over my face, fragile and precious like a diamond.
I was created back in the days of Galileo.

My bold black numbers dark as endless space.
I am used for many things such as being an artefact of devious wars.
Every day I feel the tingling pain of spiders crawling across my body.
My rusty wooden texture, hard and painful.
An old man picking his frail body off the rocking chair, with the smell from the holy woods of Kronos’s garden.
My son, the clock on the wall, more fabulous than my legacy and my hope through my remaining days.
I am the grandfather clock.