I really like clocks. I find the steady metronome of a traditional analog soothing; it’s faint tick-tock a whisper of stability and certainty. But not always. Sometimes, the sound drives me to rip its round face from my wall in a desperate, and selfish, desire for silence. At times, the tick-tock is not a whisper but a nagging generation of insecurity. Some nights, the ticking is communicative. It archives my existence with each numbered heartbeat. I’m not sure, specifically, what sets me off but I’m confident that it’s both the conscious acknowledgment of my mortality and the realization that I am absolutely p o…