An Attempt to Write like Stephen Fry

 

I have stumbled over the fact, some days ago, that attention was urgently needed to my concept of time. It crept into my life with an eerie but imperceptive presence and, with the growth of time, it embodied itself in my subconscious and merged with my very habits of staring at a digital screen with utmost concentration.

It is, by far, the most catastrophic flaw that required the most labour. It served as an origin to other nameless blemishes that resulted in great sacrifices. See, when I speak of time, I mean the consciousness of its flow, its own extraordinary ability to lengthen, to stretch, to zoom in on a precise point. This mere quality has an enchanting outcome; with every focused task, time itself will elongate to baffling amounts. However, the root of the problem is that this juicy quality can reverse itself with mindless tasks. It dries up, the hydration evaporates, the thick, meaty layer shrinks itself to a set of rotting bones.

Precisely, the function of an inorganic phone is to engulf, to absorb all of the succulent content of time. It feeds on the very life of the infinite ticking of the clock, of the immeasurable eternity. It is the supreme ancestor of all malicious allure.

 

Thank you! Thank you.

 

 

 

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