If folk say the first lines of a novel should, directly or otherwise, pose an inviting question for the reader, then perhaps the same could be said of the cover.
What is the price we pay for Time? Is it our work, that wears us out? Is it biology? Does Time, like the gears of the clock, hold within it some kind of trap? Is there a way out? Is it inevitable that we’re ensnared, or are we in some way complicit?
And who are the two shadowy figures at the edges of the picture..?
In Surreal Time 