Tick, tick, tick.

As I sit hear, listening to the mercilessly loud ticking of my watch, I know, even before I have finished typing the first sentence, that I have nothing of real importance to say. Tick, tick, tick. The noise is taking over my mind, making me feel as though I am victim of some kind of reversed Chinese Water torture. I permit myself to peer around at my surroundings and find myself staring at the enraged face on the cover of Frankenstein. It is calling me into it's unusual pages. The monster's yellow eye is beckoning me, crying out for me to finish the last ten chapters so that I can find out if Frankenstein's "destiny," "his ruin," his overall "destruction," really are as bad as he is foreshadowing them to be. Tick, tick. It has come to the point in the book where the monster is telling Frankenstein a story, who is telling the story that the monster is telling him inside of his own story about his destiny, ruin, and overall destruction to another man (who's name is Robert), who is writing it all down so that he can tell his sister. Tick. I'm sure that soon the monster will begin telling Frankenstein a story that Felix told him so then it will go Felix, Monster, Frank, Robert, Sister, in order of story telling. I smiled to myself when I read the name Felix. I smiled also when I read about the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life. Tick, tick. Alas, I can resist no longer, the pages of the twisted story are drawing me in. Tick.