He landed the path inside the clock

 As a whole and beyond its limit. Some inside, some outside. As if it were certainty. Shadow of certainty. Thought dismantling. Some would have nothing. They get up and go back to sleep. That's what it's all about: passing. Go back and get up like the raging lovers. To find yourself in your doubts and reproaches. In his biting kisses. In pieces from time to time. Of sun and shadows. Of circles of passion. There was no storm that afternoon. Rotate the sand inside the circle of the clock. Marking the muffled steps of death. He led the way into the clock. He entered dazzled under the afternoon spotlight. He entered the spot of one color. Endless alley of color on the stain from which collapsed life falls.

Sense, then ex-isto as hypo/thesis.