Tick

 

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

On a lonely street, a lonely man sits inside a lonely house, in his lonely armchair and heaves a lonely sigh.

No sounds but the lonely ticking of the clock interrupt his lonely thoughts.

Tick.

Tick.                                                                                                                                        

Tick.

On a chirpy terrace, a chirpy young girl with a chirpy sort of smile stands in her hallway and puts on a chirpy hat at a chirpy angle.

No sounds but the chirpy ticking of the clock interrupt her chirpy thoughts.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

On a serious-looking street, a group of serious-looking men sit around a serious-looking table and think very serious thoughts.

No sounds but the serious-sounding ticking of the clock interrupt their very serious thoughts.

Tick.

The lonely man is thinking about his dead son.

The chirpy girl is thinking about her new boyfriend.

The serious-looking men are thinking about what to have for lunch, or what to tell their wife about their conference this weekend, or what time to skive off work early.

Tick.

Neither the lonely man nor the chirpy girl nor the serious-looking men have any idea that in four seconds all the nuclear weapons their government owns that have been poisoning their planet for sixty-two years are about to explode by accident.

No-one knows this. No-one will know this; until it happens.

Tick.