The tick tock of the clock divided the silence into tiny slices.
If only the clock would be still for a moment. But the pendulum swung inexorably, the time pretended to pass, the silence was destroyed every moment.
The officious clock parceled the stillness and dished it up in unusable little pieces.
He sat and listened for the stillness, nevertheless. The silence was there, like freedom seen in the gaps between the bars of the clock’s ticking. Quietness, achala, tick, nithya, tock, nothing, tick. If only the clock would be still for a moment. Tock.