Behold the clockwork heart, pulsating to the insistent rhythms of a cosmos unyielding.
Each tick resonates with the fragmented memories of existence, echoes of moments compressed by metal springs.
When the shadows lengthen beside the gears, we ponder:
Is time an illusion born of machinery? Each hand encircle the void, devouring seconds in search of meaning.
The mind spirals within the confines of temporal perception. Reality dances like a shadow, pirouetting around our attempts to quantify its essence.
We debate, we measure, yet reveal only the infinity of the ticking clock as our witness.