Time flows like a rivulet, splashing on pebbles of memory, refracted in hues of speculation. A hands watch ticks, ticks, turns, sometimes stopping abruptly caught in their own game of paradox. In time there is no time, each second a world, a whisper in a clockwork language, murmuring secrets of forgotten springs and absent flies.

There's a dance—no, an intricate ballet—of gears beneath the skin of all that lives. Sunlight winks between otherworldly yawns, stretching shadows like the tethered dreams of those who dare sleep while the clock ticks not-ticks.

Ceaseless, the echo runs until the run runs dry—yet the whispers carry on, carried by streams unseen. They weave into a cerulean tapestry, threaded by fingers unseen, known only in the gentle touch of a wheeze on a breathless loop.