The night of the storm - old gods rolling into predetermined position giving the folks below the lightning fork finger. An endless humidity that grinds away the ambitions of those caught within it. The watchmaker and son climb the hillside, leaving behind willowed wives in pursuit of the strobing horizon that flashes in momentary glimpses of the divine. A watchmaker and son in-chase of some electrifying current that sweeps over rolling hills and sprawling woodland. A storm dragging itself out to the vast seas, for a moment to glimpse it from above and see the ropes and pulleys betraying the hollowness of theatre. Flee! Flee from the urban sprawl that sits over shoulder bearing the responsibility of the modern man. Flee out to the darkness given momentary life by reverse fireworks overhead. There is no rain come yet, the plunge is yet to arrive and the world holds its breath beneath. The watchmaker is no philosophical man and yet with something much larger than himself threatening to cast itself down upon him. He has the feeling many do, that it is all just too primal, a masculine exercise in the ridiculous is what this weather posturing is all about. The son is more aware he fears, more uncertain of the building air pressure and flying sparks. His thoughts inconsequential in any grand scheme and to think there is no scheme is a thought he cannot reconcile. Reaching back into himself he brings forth no purpose for his own collection of moments. Did they need purpose? Could they be given one or had fate sealed us all into a raw deal of aimless lightning strikes? The thunder is missing and it has occurred to them both it seems. A ballooning silence waiting to burst and rip through chaste sky and parental love. It never comes this night, the lightning becomes less frequent and recedes back undoing its own mortality. They trudge now through dry grass back down the hill, no roaring thunderbirds taking flight through air currents, tears held back from public display to leave the ground  unmolested, but still the creation of memory. A storm through the nervous system that links, though invisible, two in tight bonds that flow seamlessly from one to another. A death bed dialogue that endures long past the memory has faded into unreadable nonsense, a feeling that lingers beyond the reason. At climax three stripes of lightning flash before them illuminating the hillside. The watchmaker will sleep dreamless sleep this night, but the son will lay awake not willing to look a dream in the eyes. He will see thousands crawling towards their death under European storm clouds that have spied all humanity's endeavors. The son would weep for them if he thought it might do them any good but it was a prophetic vision he would never attach himself too, now he is safe in his own time, his own home with the only family he would ever know. He was the watchmaker's son and his tears would not roll for time his father would never make.