Why do you speak with an accent? Everyone knows you're not from the streets.

[afterthefray]

The clock has stopped at exactly 6:27. You know it can never tell you the real time but you stare at it anyhow, silently wishing that the seconds trickling by would be reflected on its face. The little green hand doesn't move. You imagine it does, for a second, but it never gets past the number twelve upon which it froze kissing. And even if you blink, you can see that the hand moves backwards - an impossible feat, yet perhaps feasible if you were to be honest with yourself.

The hand never touches the number eleven.

I've been lying to everyone. I'm not okay.