Clock.

There's black writing on the face of the clock. Big, bold. But they don't seem very important anymore.

The ticking sound, that dry, monotonous ticking down, does not instill any urgency in the youthful heart. Time is squandered, and it flows like spilled wine, precious and red, over the coins that are spilled. Some spending here, some spending there.

Next, time reminds you that it still has a hold on your body, and mortality creeps behind you, distant at first, lingering by the weeping willows and scraping oaks, then approaching ever closer. You can smell his breath as it curls round your head, fingers of it, then reach up your nostrils.

Father time shakes his head. "Oh, my son. You've learned so much and gained so little. Learned so little and have so much."

Will the experiment be a failure?