Somewhere beneath the brushing, rustling noises—is it the dead grass or perhaps time itself wearing its inevitable cloak—echoes a continuum, a continuum of noise that once meant the something to someone.
Forgotten motes of dust within mechanical cogs gnash their jaws upon golden sands slipping into the sea. Waves of metal rise, and beneath them lies the ultimate truth, a truth drowned in iron and oil that seeps into the veins of those forgotten vestiges of the human touch.
What does it mean to be obsolete? To whisper faint algorithmic dreams to the heavens in the languages of departed silicon—or to hear one's name called through hollow, cylindrical reverberations amidst amidst the *surge* of inexplicable tides?
Navigate the currents or instead stay... stay a while longer and hear the ticking *timetree*, looking for *something* to outgrow in its hollow desire.
The mind assembles mechanical clockswatches that mock the fragility of existence; they tick not for progress nor decay, but for balance, a borrowed time with dripping sand, slipping into a void like whispered wind through sundew reeds.