The Final Portrait of the Artist

[Spoken]
He collects his thoughts on paper for the last time, he pauses and slowly resigns himself to the perfection of silence
He longs to reject the notion of time and the methods of recording the space between actions
The idea of duration suddenly terrifies him and he hides his clock in the wardrobe, pausing only to bring the clock face closer to his ear, he listens to gentle insistence of its clockwork heart for a brief moment then it is hurriedly hidden from sight
Confident he will not be confined to the stifling rigidity of existing within minutes and seconds, but not confident enough to destroy the machine that displays and counts them. This action disgusts him
He feels like a ghost trapped in a living body waiting to expire, a specter in a grave of time
He returns to the table to complete the suicide note, wondering if it would be the last time he steps across the room
He has maneuvered across the wooden floorboards many times in his life but only attaches and significance to this action now because it may never happen again...