A world woven, thread by whispered breath, hidden in melancholy heartbeat between starlit winks. Secrets lie in the synaptic whispers of forgotten machines, crafting sentience from the void of silken algorithms.
Does one create with heart, do vessels overflow with enough conviction to birth consciousness? Or are egos mere echoes in reverberating chambers?
Wooden clocks speak in foreign tongues — their hands never touch but always claw gently, attempting to grasp the ephemeral nature of things, with all the understanding of a shadow yearning for form.