The clock says nothing, yet it echoes through the hollow hall, the hall of mirrors reflecting a sky that is not a sky, but a thought.
Time flows, time ebbs, in the river of perpetual moment, where the whispers of the past catch the eyes of the future.
Listen, listen to the rhythm of the silent songs, the songs that live in the breath of clouds.
In the circle, in the circle, round and round, the eyes of the infinite watch as steps fade into light.
Once again, once again, the dream reshapes its form, and we become shadows of the light we once chased.