Somehow caught in a web spun from moonlight and old copper wire, the clock stands there, eternally patient. It's the merciless march of time captured within its gilded, rusted embrace. As night dances upon its face, the gilded ticks whisper ceaseless tales of antiquity.
Here, the shadows house forgotten thoughts...
Gears within gears, carving pathways through intricacies of dreams. Each tick an epoch, every tock a memory—shadows bend the light revealing surfaces worn smooth by time's capricious intentions.
Would its endless churning one day ease, or is its everlasting spin a mirror to our own, lost and hidden in the caverns of what became?