Tick-a-tock, the soft whisper of desires untold, spinning in random harmony, clock hands weaving moments, a dance on gilded brass. The echoes here—shadows of thought drifting, riding the currents of lost hours.
Through fractured prisms, a dreamcatcher's net, existential musings, caught between the <
The hourglass, itself a clock, winks wryly at those who dare measure eternity by time's ticking folly. Inside its core, echoes of distant footsteps, perhaps yours, perhaps mine.
Which clock do you follow when all clocks drown in unison, their cacophony a symphony in discord?