There was a strange quietness to the room, the air was completely still. It was as if the room was covered in resin, forever forced to stay the same, forever. There was a table in the centre of the room, it must have seen a lot. It seemed to consist of many tables, actually. There was paint on one side, for some reason. Did someone try to paint it and gave up? Or was it an accident? The wood was sanded on the other side. In one other place it seemed to be made of an entirely different species. And yet it stood right here, in the middle of the room, taking up way too much space (you really had to try if you wanted to squeeze by). The star of the show. Upon closer inspection, one would discover writings and drawings and doodles. Someone left a grocery list. Yes, not peculiar at all. Someone else drew a pony. Oh wait, two ponies. Or were these horses? The drawings weren’t very good. There were letters carved into it, initials. “L was here”. Or was it a “V”? Despite all the madness the table has gone through, all the changes, the transformations, it seemed... whole. It worked. And it was in working condition too. And spotless. The same couldn’t be said about the surrounding bookcases and shelves that haven’t been touched in a long, long time. It was weird, really. Even though it was utterly insane and old and forgotten, this table, this room felt dynamic. This table showed... no, that’s not right, the table was the time itself. There was no clock around, that seemed intentional, what use would it be compared to this statement on time itself. The table measured life and that was all that mattered.