'History of the Halfbakery' Photomosaic Clock

Journal entry: Thursday, January 25th, 2068. Today marks my fifth anniversary here at the 'Happy Meadows Retirement Community,' as if it were something to celebrate. Yep. The kiddies locked me up in here five years ago and have probably moved by now. Raise 'em right and this is where I end up? I'll fix them, though, I'll fix 'em right good in my will.

I received a gift today, marked 'from an old friend.' It's a clock of some kind, which for some reason or another jolted me when I first saw it.

I know my eyes are no good, but it seems to me that the whole face keeps shifting a little in an unnatural way as the *hands* sweep. And there are no hands. It's just a picture of a clock on an electronic screen. Yet if I hang it up across the room, it looks pretty much like an ordinary antique clock. But why does it make me dizzy looking at it? Even without the trifocals I can tell there's something odd about this thing. I'll figure it out tomorrow, if I can find where I hid my glasses.

January 26th, 2068. Glasses found. I was right. Peering really close, it's one of those clever photomosaic pictures I saw when I was young. And the images are familiar for some reason. Drawings of some of the oddest clocks imaginable, cats in compromising circumstances, faces of people wearing odd gadgets on their heads, pictures of horses, and a red-haired gal here and there. And every minute, the hundreds of small pictures that together composed the minute hand and the surrounding area would change accordingly.

January 28th, 2068. As I rolled to the cafeteria today, the scent of french bread brought it all back back to me in a turbulent whirlwind of thought. I knew I'd seen some of those images someplace. It was on that old web site I used to visit...

February 16th, 2068. I've had a relapse, or so the obnoxious one tells me. I much prefer the young pretty doc. She's gonna be in my will. I guess it makes sense, looking at my lack of journal entries for the time. Last week, which I could never hope to remember, the docs tell me that all I could utter were the words 'custard' and 'baked,' and they kept shoving overcooked custard into me, thinking that it was what I wanted. And somebody's gone and took my clock. Said I behaved better before it arrived. Bah... I'll find where they stashed it...