I.

his fingers bleed from clenching the quill tightly in his hamfists; gelatinous eyes peering over the piles of crumpled pages; a cloud of stench hangs over his hungover countenance; a pool of inks catches the reflected candlelight

he dies this evening

II.

the clock on the wall judges all that dare step foot in its loathsome gaze; as the longer arm points toward heaven with thunderous clicking gears; a set of doors open, small and carefully carved; a bird of indiscriminate origin slides out to trill a sullen song of surrender

the brass pendulum, long tarnished from oily hands, swings; weights affixed to chains provide balance to the tumor of gears turning in perfect precision

III.

the scratching at the desk became faster; in his haste he tore with the nib; uncaring he wrote faster and faster and faster, unable to keep up with the song in his mind; he barely had time to carefully set the sheet to the side and throw a handful of rice across it before beginning again

beads of sweat ran down his red face; he grabbed the battered goblet, draining the vestiges of vinegary wine to sate the thirst; still the song sang unerringly; still the song sang through his arm across the parchment

IV.

the bird gave no notice of the man slumped over the desk; painted eyes betraying no sign of loss

eventually the coiled metal lost its tension; the carefully arranged inner workings lost momentum; the bird forever more left caged in the mechanical hell