Wander through pathways lit by the ghosts of yestereve, where tick-tock clocks forget the time and I've left my sense of self, stranded on the shores of sentiment. The mind, a labyrinth of cogs and cranks, forever winding, unwinding, unwinding…
A clock strikes thirteen, or maybe fourteen, right before silence swallows the sound. I breathe in coppery air, taste the rust of what could be dreams, or perhaps the remnants of a thousand broken promises.
In the archives of unwritten tomorrows lie truths told by shadows, murmurs caught in the gears of the copy machine that never finishes its work. Here, in this twilight, the clock ticks twice for every heartbeat, and I ponder what it means to be forgotten.
There lies the path of mechanical musings, where machinery meets memories in a dance they've both long since forgotten. But I remember, I write, I whisper… more shadows, less light.
Worn and weary, the mind's clock winds down, ticking less with every thought until it pauses, stares, and breaks open the sky with a single brass bolt…mirrors that never lie.
And so it goes, the endless turning, the quest for that one missing cog that would bring everything into perfect harmony. Until then…phantoms play on.