The Engines of Entropy

Do whispers linger in the layers of sediment?

Once upon a starlit evening—or perhaps it was overcast—someone pondered on mechanical marvels. They called them engines, not of progress, but of an inaudible kind—entropy. Can you imagine a time before TVs were turned off? Before the child left home, leaving the box buzzing with static?

An ancient phrase, perhaps an unfinished thought, reads:

"The machine forever purrs, grinding moment into moments, like sand slipping through oblivious fingers."

In our modern cybernetic dreams, the purr is simulated. Rooted not in steel, but in digits and binary songs. But these songs still belong to the old world, sung by voices fossilized and preserved under dust, beneath layers of what we call history.

There's a beautiful rhythm in these fossilized thoughts, like the sound of clattering bones in an uncertain dance. What if, underneath our busy sidewalks, another layer cradles these thoughts?

A doorway might open somewhere, leading to murmut where the whispers are incessant.

And while we walk this path, we might wonder about those unrealized machines, sitting silently in forgotten rooms.

The purring must go on. It always has.