As I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I tried to capture the dream's name, but it slipped.
Laughter around a giant wooden table—why was it a compass that spoke?
The sky bruised, tinting the metronomic sweep of the shadows.
The clock, a sage now, tolls to remember something only the brave hands dare to hold.
We walked a staircase that folded back into the sea, like fabrics caught in August winds.
I told a story I'd forgotten, woven with nonsensical lessons hammered out of steel.
Why speak when the clock already knows?
A flicker—a dream resounding with the undertones of pebble-talk at a clearstream.
What horizon thinks of days long past, we weaved into constellations stained with morning dew.
There was a knocking—all is clicking in unison.
And then? Silence... the time-keepers rounded on their orbit. All brought back to slumber.
The clock wasn’t watching. It was singing.