Faint whispers echo in clocks without hands,
as seconds dance swiftly upside-down.
Betray not the cyclical gaze of forgotten sand—they communicate in tidal rituals.
"Speak softly to the echoes, child of scattered presence,"
murmurs the vapor-melded sage of all things misplaced. Hold dear the fleeting choreography of hyperlapsing moments.
Veil every jump in the symmetry of silence,
homage to anchors untouched by transient twirls.
And when kaleidoscopic chimes mimic solemnity,
let them unravel in celestial twine.
Embark upon transmissions low in gravity,
as both humble musician and gargantuan audience sing remembrance.
The illusion of "now" shall be your stealth
whilst cosmic tapestries entwine around your vanishing shadow.