A Measure of Gravity

Growing weary of domestic walls, I took a disciplined stroll into the quiet corridor of an antique galleria. Upon a black marble plinth sat a heavy hourglass encased in polished brass pillars, its chamber completely abandoned with half the coarse golden sand trapped uselessly in the upper bulb. Such suspended stagnation was an insult to momentum. Stepping onto the cold stone base, I braced my stance, planted both hands against the knurled brass rim, and inverted the vessel with a deliberate, single turn. The fine grains plunged instantly in a tight, disciplined amber stream toward the base. Time now proceeds under appropriate supervision.