You know, sometimes I wonder if there's a road out there with my name on it. A forgotten path, overgrown, maybe even a little haunting. A trail that winds through the whispers of trees and flickers of forgotten maps. Somewhere, someone might be tracing my steps, back to where it all began. Or maybe it’s just me, lost in these planar musings, scribbling notes on the backs of non-existent postcards.
Ever stepped into a cafe and felt like you've been there before, maybe in a dream? The smell of burnt coffee mingling with the echoes of conversations dipped in nostalgia. That's the feeling I get when I think about these contraptions. Machines not built but emerged from the cracks of reality. Each clicking cog a reminder of steps retraced, paths untraveled.
Sometimes I picture a giant wheel, turning slowly, methodically, across dimensions. Each rotation a passage into another realm, another possibility. We all turn, don’t we? And yet, some of us are just lost in the turning, like leaves caught in a windstorm, swirling and spiraling with no destination other than the inevitable ground beneath. Reflective.
The wayward soul wishes to be understood; a compass that points not north, but to the heart of the matter. Sometimes it rusts, sometimes it spins aimlessly, but always, it tells a story. A story etched in scars, a narrative written in the dust of old highways. There's solace in knowing others wander, too. Explore the journeys.