In the hum and grind of daily clocks, the hands witness the inevitable truth: all are mechanisms. Inside each tick lies a secretive anxiety, a confession of parts seeking purpose amidst calculated chaos.
Beneath the surface lie sparks of ambition, burning bright but brief, a reflection off rusty cogs forever chasing the next moment, bound only by its own design.
This is not a narrative of liberation, but of entrapment by the very gears that promise movement and the illusion of progress; a relentless cycle with no end, nor beginning, only repetition.
Seek not the escape, for there is none. The ugliest truth hides not in the inescapable cage, but in the understanding of its beauty and terror—the dance of mechanisms that understand not their world, nor the meaning of their motion.