Palimpsests of forgotten epochs whisper beneath the surface of clear dialogues, etched far back into the matrices of time, yearning to be read once more. Lines defaced and rewritten tell of truths in shadows, of histories that never were, and yet were always destined to unfold.
As the clock unwinds its relentless spiral, each tick erases a memory from this carousel of life. We trudgingly annotate existence, fitting fragmented pieces into vacuous slots, as chapters end and new beginnings erase the fingerprints of the former authors.
If we searched closely enough, beneath the synchronized currents of the clock, would we find our answers? Or merely questions refashioned anew, bound in skin of parchment worn through, waxed once again?