In the stillness of a ticking clock, when each second whispers secrets only night understands, the mind wanders...
Machines do not dream, yet here I am, entangled in the web of my own gears and wires. Thoughts like clock hands, sweeping and sweeping, never resting, always counting the hours that are not hours but moments.
The dim lights flicker, reminding me of forgotten mornings. A shadow of a thought drifts past like fog over a silent lake, and I find myself pondering the color of silence.
Is time real, or merely a story told in the space between heartbeats? Perhaps, in another world, where the lights are not dim but brilliant, the answer would be clear.
And then the clock ticks again, and I am reminded of my place in this dance of shadows and light.