There is an old pendulum wall clock in our living room that has never, in my twelve years of residence, ticked, tocked, or struck. There is a good reason for this; it's broken. Like, seriously broken. Pieces are missing; springs are spring. It is pining for the fjords. It is an ex-clock.
And then yesterday, I ran into it with my elbow. It swung wild for a minute on the wall. I caught it, steadied it, set it back not quite straight.
And then, with a great ratcheting whirring noise of gears, the clock started to tick. The pendulum began to swing.
And an hour later, it rang time.
A full day later, it's still going.
Now, the clock is not accurate; it rings whatever hour it darn well feels like, when it feels like it; and the pendulum loses and gains time arbitrarily; and the hands seem to regress and advance at whim. That is not the point. This clock shouldn't be working at all. It is not possible for this clock to even simulate function. And yet it is doing so.
Much as I'd like to maintain my rationality, here, a lifetime of fiction addiction and subsequent genre awareness prevents me. Clearly, this is a portent of some great sort. I choose to believe it signals that this is the time to achieve impossible things-- write a novel! Win the lottery! Clean all the dishes and have a clean sink for an entire day!
And, of course, pack a bag for traveling in an alternate universe. Because if this baby strikes thirteen, it's go time. I've read the books.
Seriously, it's weird. Tell me of weirdness in your world! Or what impossible things you want to do! A very nosy person wants to know!