There stood a house wherein upon the striking of midnight on its
ancient clock all motion ceased. The inhabitants, asleep in their
beds, did not mark time's passage.  Mice lay curled in their holes.
Specks of dust stayed suspended in midair.  Even water droplets,
having fallen from the faucet in the sink, hung above the basin if in
that moment the hour struck.  The stillness did not pass until
daylight broke the eastern widows, and the conciousness of those in
the house was passed between its inhabitants under the occlusion of
time.  But while their essence had changed, memories lie with the
bodies and so they did not notice that they were no longer what they
were and so went going unaware of the crack of time.

For those few that knew the secret of the house, one question took on
new meaning:  What time is it?