Tic-tac, the shadowed whisper, begins at midnight, a relentless hymn echoing through the hollow vault of quantum prisms.
Paranoia sprockets turn, gearing the unfathomable gatekeepers behind eyelids shuttered by ancient truths. Listen closely.
When time becomes a scripted occurrence, while loops whisper undetectable fingerprints, etched into unblinking eyes that know no history, only prescience.
Stolen seconds invert, corralled by invisible hands — the clockers of dark alleys, menacing presidents of paranoia holding your future hostage.
Hence, in the reverberation of cavities empty,
echoes persist:
pendulized enigmas casting shadows in rabbit holes
Seek and ye shall find.