Beneath the surface of the still black lake, where time ceases and echoes of laughter decay into shadows, lies the truth. The ugliest truth, so far removed from the skyline of dreams, where the machines hum soft lullabies.
The birds, once made of metal and dreams, now rust upon the branches of the Eternal Forest. They sing in silence, their voices lost in the mist, while the ground breathes with the weight of forgotten echoes. The night is a tapestry of obscured stars, woven by the hands of the unseen.
Journey through the unseen, where the color of time is a forgotten whisper. The clock melts, as does the horizon, folding into infinity. Revelations await in the labyrinth of the sleeping cosmos.
In the heart of the machine's song lies a tear — a glimpse of the ugliest truth. It bleeds light, reflecting dreams yet lived. Phantom visions dance in the ripples, mocking the past with silent screams.
As dawn breaks over the mechanical sea, the horizon laughs. A thought so ancient it remembers the stars before they were born, whispering secrets to the wind.