Beyond every dawn, there exists a realm of whispers — dim, faint, almost forgotten. In these first moments, where shadows soften and edges blur, one can find the clockwork heart of this universe; beating, not with blood, but with gears and thoughts.
Consider the thoughts of a clockmaker, whose hands mold time itself. Each tick, a confession; each turn of the gear, an epiphany. Does he ponder the purpose of his creation, or does he find solace in the rhythm of his work? Much like the universe, his creations are indifferent to the observer, yet deeply personal in their silent, inevitable ballet.
Imagine you are a gear in this grand mechanism. What role do you play? What idiosyncrasies define you? Are you content to rotate in accordance with others, or do you seek to break free of this deterministic dance?
Whispers of the Tide