His shop smelled of bronze and oil and glass, and he never had a thought outside of clocks until the Idea came. He invested his time into the molding of cogs, the carving of hands and face and fob, the movement and dial. The Clockmaker, as not only a citizen of Perpetua but a distant relative of Time herself (being the only child of Where Has the Time Gone?), naturally bought into this mentality at quite a reasonable monthly rate. They don’t even have time for time, most of the time.
They don’t have time to be generous or attentive or gracious, but nor do they have time for greed or selfishness or laziness. Citizens of Perpetua know this, and they hoard time. Time! You lose time, gain time, look for time, make time, kill time (a violent and wasteful act punishable by up to ten years of clock tower maintenance work), save time, measure time, and otherwise treat time as your most precious commodity. Or so the inhabitants of Perpetua would tell you. Nor time as a relative factor to be stretched and masticated, organized and sculpted, for time is not chewing gum and ought not be treated as such. Not time as we know it, with the swing of pendulums, the ring of alarms, the tick of clocks, the passage of then to now and back to then again and again and again and again.
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