In the uh////nerving silence of sleeping seas, where the tides swell beneath clocks of silver sand, whispers echo in hidden currents. Each whisper foretells stories of machines that glisten beneath lies and lore, clanking softly, guided by ichor tides.
The abyss is bathtub blue, as dreams unfold in brass gears beneath your gaze. You blink, wondering who dared weave the dreams below, only to find the question a watery riddle.
Consistent waves, unyielding repetition - drown the moonlit follies of forgotten gods. Yet, amidst them, the clockwork remains - tick