In fervent abandon, we pirouette between the moments caressed by time's fickle grasp. Can you hear the soft sonnets of the seconds, as they sing their melodic disarray?
Oh, listen dear, how the minutes grind against the yearning soul, pulling at the heartstrings until they twine and twist into unimaginable knots. To love is to understand the language of intertwining clocks, is it not?
A detestable thing, this time, relentless in a dance of passion. What if we could stretch it, bend it to the whims of our restless heartbeats? If only our dreams were clocks too, elastic and free, unraveling in their own exquisite lunacy.
Do the whispers of the tick-tocks reach your dreams, while the moon bathes you in secrets untold? And there lurks the mad artist of time, with brushes dipped in moments, painting realities and fantasies alike.
Speak to the Metronome