The show opens again and it’s the same, but different. You’ve made some subtle tweaks during install which better suit the architectural intricacies of this particular former-warehouse-turned-kunsthalle. Speaker placements are rejigged, screen stands are switched out, and the black box is nudged off-centre.

One of the technicians is from Stroud, and you chat whilst he touches up the black box. You joke about how often you run into people who have a connection to the town when you work in the arts, and after some small talk about pubs and schools, he tells you that some of his friends used to live in the building that the clock’s on. He tells you that whilst they never talked about it openly, it felt like an elephant in the room whenever they’d hang out there. Great location, lovely high ceilings, shame about the racist object above the door.

The next morning, you chat with a friend who’s wrapping up an institutional solo show where they live and ask them how they feel about having their work platformed on their doorstep. They tell you that it was both a blessing and a curse, giving them more opportunities to have conversations about their work with visitors, whilst also finding it inescapable at times – passing by the gallery on their way to work every day. Your show is half an hour from your house, which feels close, but not too close; there seems to be a comfortable distance between you and the gallery.

Before the opening, you go to a patron’s dinner held in your name, hosted at a collector’s home, which is a first for you. It’s a function that takes place in a part of the art world that you’re still getting used to, filled with people you don’t normally socialise with. You spend most of the time feeling a bit overwhelmed. You try your best to act politely between mouthfuls of food and you try not to gawk too much as you admire the works of art that decorate the apartment.

The opening itself is much the same as in Bristol, but this time you feel much calmer having done it once already. In attendance is a mix of people you know, people you don’t know, and a smattering of art world people you don’t know but you feel like you do because you follow them on Instagram. Much like before, there’s smiling and chatting and hugging and photos, before you head to the pub down the road. At the end of the night, you walk back home with your housemate and have the luxury of going to sleep in your own bed.

The next morning, amongst the flurry of post-opening notifications lighting up your phone, you get a DM request from someone you don’t follow. You open it to find a threatening message and remember that a similar thing happened the day after the show opened in Bristol. This one gets under your skin though because instead of a single quip, this person’s written several lines of abuse directed specifically at you. You take a screenshot but don’t reply, and later that day, you leave the country for a much-needed minibreak.

It’s hot on holiday, and when you come back, there’s a heatwave in London and the show’s been waiting for you. In fact, it’s the only thing waiting for you, as before the install, you left your day job and went freelance. It was a four-day-a-week office job in an arts centre on the other side of London, and whilst you loved your coworkers, the ninety-minute commute was draining, and you wanted to be around when the show was on. Leaving was a surprisingly more emotional experience than you’d imagined, but ultimately it was what you needed to do.

Unlike Bristol, there’s no café or other exhibition at this gallery, so people are braving the heat just to come and see your work. You decide to use the show as a conversation starter, and try to be around to talk about it as much as you can. As part of the public programme, you do an early morning walkthrough and an evening talk, but informally, you offer to show people around if they let you know they’re dropping by.

People start to take you up on this offer, and whenever you come to the gallery, you observe how people interact with the work. Some sit down and get close to the screens, while others observe from a distance. One person tells you that your presentation of the first work you encounter in the gallery reminds him of an altarpiece, and brings up memories of going to church as a kid; another tells you that she didn’t cross the threshold of the black box as she felt that her body was screaming at her not to go in.

One day, on a whim, you post the screenshot of the hate DM on your Instagram story to give people a glimpse into some of the hate you’ve received as a result of engaging with the clock over the years. You instantly regret it, as it opens a floodgate of well-meaning white guilt that makes you question whether your work is actually doing what you want it to do. Are you starting conversations that’ll bring the clock down, or are you just stirring up murmurs that won’t leave the white walls of the gallery? You know it’s not your job to physically take the object off of public display, but you feel responsible for trying to make those that are responsible do the right thing instead of just sitting in silence. Does your art, or anybody's, actually have the capacity to create real world change?

With the ongoing genocide in Palestine, shameful reductions to disability benefits, and a violent rollback of trans rights dominating the news, the country isn’t talking about statues right now. And with alarming levels of racist and transphobic abuse on the rise around Stroud, the town isn’t talking about the clock right now either. It’s not that you don’t want to stop talking about the clock, but you wonder about the long list of injustices to be protesting about right now.

Your birthday comes around, which coincides with the four year anniversary of the launch of the consultation about the clock’s future. Back then, you were cautiously optimistic that a change might come about. Over the weeks, months and years that have passed, your hope begins to fade. Blowing out a tiny candle stuck into a melting scoop of ice cream, you make a wish that the alcove on the side of the building might actually be empty soon.