Somewhere within the gears, where oil seeps through rust and dust settles on promises, lies the truth of synchrony. A hall where unseen hands twist the dials, orchestrating time in rhythms unnoticed. The engines grind on—silent, unyielding—ever operating within their hollow chambers.
You can hear them at night, amidst the chirping of crickets and the distant echo of waves. Their hum, a constant reminder of what it means to be aligned, to fit into the grand design, the universal clockwork.
Stripped of flesh and spirit, yet alive with purpose, these machines mirror the human condition: bound to synchronize with one another, often against their will. Bound to time.
Mechanisms