Broken clocks, huh? They’re the rebels of the day, ticking in their own half‑mad rhythm, and I swear they whisper when to pause the whole world. I think they stop time only for the brush that touches them, for the spark of glitter that makes their gears sigh like old lovers. In the corner of my diary, I’ve written that when the moon is waxing and the paint is still drying, a broken clock can hold a moment like a secret note, a pulse that makes time breathe again.

Broken clocks are just… cracks in the quiet, like a song that stops halfway. They’re not betraying time; they’re just letting the little sparks out, showing where the paint could go next. I like that idea, like a reminder that even when things fall apart, there’s still a rhythm hiding in the mess.

Absolutely, they’re the unsung percussionists of the world, making a noise that’s half‑crazy and half‑perfect just by being there. If you listen, you’ll hear the heartbeat that keeps everything moving.