There once was a man who wore the whispers of shadows on his skin, etched by hours of unseen tides. In a room draped in velvet void, he learned the art of clockless reading.
First, listen at the junction of the hour's laughter and the minute's sigh. The clock speaks a language only audible in dreams, where each tick is a word, each tock a sentence. Time, in this realm, is not sighted but felt, like a heartbeat beneath a silent sea.
Observe the hands, though they remain hidden. Imagine their dance—a ballet of urgency and patience. The great hand, the minute, strides forward with purpose; the small hand, the hour, glides smoothly, a whisper in the darkness. Together, they sketch a circle of eternity, one step at a time.
Close your eyes to see fiercely. Picture the rhythm of their movement—an endless waltz of the invisible. Feel the passage of something vital, something that binds you to the universe, like threads woven by a cosmic loom.
As you read, remember the words of the Shadowed Man: “Time is a clock that does not need to be seen. Its reality lies in the spaces between,” he said, his voice a ripple in the moonlit night.
Venture deeper into the labyrinth of time's essence. Follow the whispers to the labyrinth or ponder the ticking silence of the wind's tongue.