Delicate machinery adrift, upon ancient rivers running slow. Between the tick and the silence looms a twilight narrative unspooling in binary twilight. Echoes stout pieced away spun in threads of iron.
The pendulum swings—an archaic lyre casting shadows upon gilded rust—dancing with time not its own, here and there, somewhere else.
Perchance to dream amid clockwork winds steering the way back to futures of strawberry skies—mocks the relentless faith in oscillation. A mechanical hymn streching across the horizon in crumpled light.
Fluctuate, iterate, recreate the older whispers of twilight mechanisms: corridors of memory.