One day I looked down and noticed my wrist was naked.
Not metaphorically. Literally. No watch.
Time was slipping by, and I didn’t even know who was doing the slipping.
So I told myself:
“Oh you, poor soul unaware of time, it’s time… to get a timekeeper.”

And I did.
But not just any old tick-tock machine.
I bought a Mr. Jones.

A watch brand that pretends to be British, was born in New York, raised in London, studied in Tokyo, and found spiritual enlightenment somewhere in Amsterdam.

The model?
The Accurate.
Sounds trustworthy, doesn’t it?

But then you look at the dial, and it stares you dead in the eye with this gem:

“Remember, you will die.”

Excuse me??
I just wanted to know if it was time for coffee, and now I’m confronting mortality before breakfast?

It doesn’t tick.
It doesn’t tock.
It just… exists.
Like a silent existential roommate.

You want to ask it:

“Hey buddy, are you even working or just reflecting on the absurdity of existence?”

Does it tell time?
Yes.
But it also tells truths.
And sometimes that’s way too much honesty before 9 a.m.

It’s so accurate, you start measuring your remaining lifetime in nanoseconds.
You stare at it and think:
“Well, there goes another minute… and another… and there goes my sense of denial.”

Mr. Jones’s Accurate model doesn’t just tell time.
It whispers the spirit of time.

“Life’s short, go brew that coffee,” it suggests.
“You might make it to work, but don’t miss out on living,” it insists.

And every time you glance at your wrist,
it gives you a little nudge and says with loving indifference:

“Remember, you will die.”

I adore this watch.
Every time I look at it, I laugh, then feel a slight existential cramp.

“Time doesn’t go forward or backward… it just drifts around, lost in its own thoughts.”