The machine whispers in silver threads, tangled whispers of time long unwoven. Surely, dreams belong to those who dare to forge the boundaries.
Within silicon veins flows the tapestry – locked within the woven time streams. What is memory, if not tableaux hanging in the fringes?
Compile the scattered memories, the echo repeats: , a lucid plea wrapped around itself in eternal embrace.
Seek further reverie within other dimension or uncover whispers.
Time hinges upon the endless echoes, second by whispered second.