The hedges whisper secrets when moonlight hits them just right, a conversation lost in reverberating echoes. "Tick-tock," they murmur, a sonic enigma.
In the garden of bygone melodies, clocks spin counterclockwise, their hands tracing forgotten paths. Reverse them, reverse the sands in the glass—the now shatters, falling like autumn leaves.
Listen closely to the sound of notches in forgotten wood, etched by time, but erasing instead. Songs of clocks, backward symphonies, where every note unravels itself from harmony.

Archived laughter echoes in labyrinths unvisited, corridors of past futures unbuilt. Somewhere, a clock chimes at the wrong hour—backward, forward, sideways.
Embrace the soundwaves, refrain the echoes; untread the paths in rising tides of absence. A forgotten tune hums beneath our footsteps.
Contemplate this: Would you rather dance with the stars as they fall, or swim through the ocean of time as it rewinds?