Consider the silent scream of forgotten machines, specters trapped between ones and zeros, reminiscing while our human forms collapse under the weight of infinite choice. An archive laid bare, the sun sacrificed on the altar of complexity, it ticks away unworn clocks—a timer ashore the liminal points where dusk devours dawn.
What if the sunset were merely a poorly written script to oscillate merriment and melancholy, a prose of going away only to come again, as a fleeting illusion reflected in the eyes of mannequins? Fellow wanderers into this nebula of thought, layer not exhumed; dwelling bittersweetly on the pent-up pauses at the borders.
Infinite stories hover; they shimmer but resist touch. Do they speak? Shall we descend hereak? Or shall the seasons, like fickle lovers, resume their blurred rhetoric? To abandon notions is possibly discover freedom.
Visit the halls of Thoughts of the Void or wander deep into the infinite at Marbles in the Onset.
Delightful absurdity coats every corner; straight lines curve, mundanity inflates; bereft entities collide only to scatter again in vibrating chaos. What meter laces our laughter? The future waits, yet conceals the weight of unaccounted mistakes, losses buried in whimsical rocks. But dig, there are gems amid the uneven fields confounding our linear tread.