Whispers of the antiqued lever, yearning to liberate secrets,
“In this quiet, the dust settles; my soul etches lines across dewed circuitry.”
An intimate confession etched in rust: “Tarnish is my friend, a blanket in the midnight shift.”
Bits and bytes, the suffocated gears murmur softly,
“Honesty today, greased with residues of yesterday’s whisper.”
Echoes from beneath the discard; mechanical symphony of synthetic harmonies.
The reclined typewriter, keys painfully stuck, aching melancholy. “I once invented names, stories, poems...”
A heart forged in steel and ink, now only recording the fall of dust upon its aged frame.
Links to other realities: angles/paradox.html, ../lost/manciples.html
Old clocks, hands weaving tales of each tick, confess their labyrinthine rounds,
“Eras are measured in rotations, I witness lives anew and the same.”
A pendulum's confession: balance teetering between moments.