We are all slaves to time. We are slaves to the perfect moment that never comes. We are nothing more than subjects of the hands of the clock, of that stupid rhythm that torments us day and night... of a tick-tock that echoes inside us and sounds louder than our own conscience. We belong to those hands of the old clock that is, according to you, forgotten in the third drawer of the bureau that you no longer use... but they are those same, old, antiquated hands, that continue to give you shouting orders that you can not question.
Photographers: Dominic Clarke
