The boy in the labyrinth hears gears. Their teeth click ubiquitously, in alarming precision. He is within the belly of a clock. Hands stretched outward as if to fly, he brushes the sides of the labyrinth with his hands, his steps loud and cavernous above the machine. The boy wonders about the surface world, whether they can hear the gears spin in their bored dances. Whether the horizon is as uninteresting as the estranged corridors of a maze. Whether the thought he was waiting for will appear with the next audible click.