It's That Time

Newman pointed up at the hotel. Under the eaves shards of ice a foot long projected downwards. A palisade of icicles. Inverted. The station was little more than a one-story hut, an isolated building with no one about. The dashboard clock registered 19.26 hours.

from Terminal, by Colin Forbes

My brother sent me a link to the Literature Clock, an interesting idea I had not come across on my own. It's a curious sort of randomness and I've enjoyed checking in over the course of the day.