Whispers of iron and brass coil their tales upon the ether, weaving a tapestry of time and gears, whispers that sing of a plan, an intricate design, a blueprint scattered across ephemeral dreams.
Anomalies ripple through spaces untouched, untouched by the soft hand of the clockmaker. In the dance of cogs and celestial motion, the schemes unfold, like a flower of steel blossoming in the void.
Consider the pattern etched into the dusk, the invisible hand guiding the stars through their nocturnal ballet. This is where the heart of the clock dreams, where the whims of a clockwork mind tread light upon the tapestry of evening.
And there lies the path through a symphony of sprockets, an echo of decisions made in the sepulcher of thought, an odyssey within a labyrinth of silenced chimes. Oh, the sweet anomaly that dwells in every tick.