In the quiet corners of the mechanical mind, where gears whisper secrets to the shadows, lies a question: What if dreams were but the oil that smooths the fractures in the cogs of reason? When the last tick of the clock fades into the ether, does the mind continue its dance of thoughts, or does it too succumb to slumber, like a puppet with no strings?
The clockwork heart beats beneath a shroud of silence, a rhythm that echoes the pulse of the universe. Every tick, a second of eternity captured; every pause, a reminder of the void. Philosophers argue endlessly, yet the true answer lies beyond the reach of logic, in realms unmarked by time.
Into the Labyrinth of Awakening The Poetry of Clockwork