The clock at the end of the world is quoting scripture, book chapter verse. The clock at the end of the world has become aware of its existence, using the small moments remaining to think about Sufism while writing folk songs for the people waiting. The songs are wonderful, full of mirth and rhythm, fragile bridges and soaring chorus. With sadness the End knows that no one will ever hear them. The place in the universe with the perfect view has no walls and no real sense of architecture in the traditional sense. But the placement is uniquely suited to the task and the clock keeps perfect time. The clock at the end of the world is quoting scripture, waiting for the completion of this thing, calling out book, chapter, and verse to an uncaring and increasingly entropic universe. An increasingly entropic universe which is cascading along with no thought to its inhabitants or the lovely music being made within, and without. The clock at the end of the world is supremely patient, humming under its breath hoping for someone to make sense of this whole thing. Waiting for someone to listen as it shouts important things into the void. And the void has no response. The clock at the end of the world is pacing the room quoting scriptures to the void, book chapter verse.