. . . and so it goes. And so it goes. And so it goes. And so it goes goes goes tick tock tick tock tick tock and one day we no longer let time serve us, we serve time and we are slaves passing,—bound into a life predicated on restrictions because the system will not function if we don’t keep the schedule tight . . .
The Ticktockman: very much over six feet tall, often silent, a soft purring man when things went timewise.
The Ticktockman.
Even in the cubicles of the hierarchy, where fear was generated, seldom suffered, he was called the Ticktockman. But no one called him that to his mask. You don’t call a man a hated name, not when that man, behind his mask, is capable of revoking the minutes, the hours, the days and nights, the years of your life. He was called the Master Timekeeper to his mask. It was safer that way.
Harlan Ellison, escritor contemporâneo norte-americano, in Repent Harlequin
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