Faint outlines persist in the dust, as shadows of forgotten machinery. They linger, eternal in their temporariness, awaiting the touch of time's indifferent hand. Each mark, an absent testament to presence.
The clock ticks in precise intervals, marking the rhythm of an unseen dance. Each second, a footprint on the path of oblivion, echoing in silence. It is the mechanical heartbeat of a world devoid of warmth, yet somehow alive.
We construct narratives around these traces, believing them to be imprints of a greater design. Yet, they exist in solitude, misunderstood fragments of a story untold. In their isolation, they reflect back to us our own ephemerality.
What remains when we are reduced to our constituent parts? The machine does not ask; it simply performs its function, a relentless process of imprinting and erasing, of creating and uncreating.
The Silent MachinesOrder Amongst Chaos