I started thinking about how women are looked at —
how often we are reduced to something that exists to be owned, to be consumed.

How the body devours the person.

As time passes, the first signs appear.
Wrinkles. Cellulite. Change.

And suddenly, in the eyes of society, our value seems to decrease,
as if worth were measured by desirability for men.

But we are not objects.
And time does not take away our value — it gives value.

That’s why this became a clock — not a table, not a sculpture, not decoration.
Because every minute reminds us: objectification must end now, not later.

Fuck objectification.

All of it.