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Hands sweep ancient face that seems old as time, reoccurring life cycles that hands mime. Lilliputian watch faces tiny and tight, Brobdingnag Big Ben, all of his might, run in circles of three-sixty degrees; time-clock task-master is making decrees.

Twelve hours are ante meridiem, A.M. signifies before the mid-day; post meridiem P.M., night time play. Half day is twelve sixties, times sixty more; double that for one hundred eight six fours.

Start over each morning, middle of night, spiraling circles that make us feel right. Each of these numbers engraved in cold stone, remnants of ancients unmasking unknown. Look to the stars for time to hunt and plant, cosmic relations for human ascent. Amun, Anubis, Isis, and Horus; Egypt’s the land of twenty-four hours. Babylonian gardens hanging tall, Nebuchadnezzar three-sixty installed.

Chaos of world and a need to make sense created the tools that now have us fenced. Models created took life of their own; brains have been molded to think like a drone. Patterns we see are fences created, time keeping models truth decimated. Planet Earth that spins on axis each day, highs and lows August or February; with repetition there must be a plan!

Calendars and clocks inventions of Man.

Cycles of birth always followed by death placed veil over our eyes, a shibboleth. Each moment’s unique no starting again, infinite moments in each of our days, we looked to the stars, to unending sky, paradigms, tools, models worshiped on high, fantastic ideas brought us out of mud; created race content to chew its cud.

Patterns and cycles and ideas embraced have been both a boon and curse to our race. Hands ever run in circular logic, running toward our grave in life neurotic.