Susurrus

The headless man in the three-piece suit waited in the long-abandoned amusement park, pacing across the yellowed, overgrown grass. He stopped mid-stride as something shifted in the air.

"You're late," said the headless man, curtly.

"Time is an illusion," whispers the rustling grass, the grating of rusting metal, the susurrant ambiance of the world. "What use is a clock when your heart no longer ticks?"

"Order. Precision. Our last connection to the divine," hisses the man. A rusted pole falls over, a shuddering, annoyed groan emerging from the twisted metal.

"Lost in dreams that your mind can no longer hold. I won't have it. Is our quarry here?" The headless man pulled out a pocketwatch. He checked the time, not fazed by the head he wears in his reflection.

"They will be, in thirteen minutes and forty three seconds."

"Then I am not late," said the presence, smugly. The headless man shook his neck stump with disdain as he walked into the jester's den, pursued by the cackling wind.