In the labyrinthine corridors of yesterday's dreams, where the sun is but a whisper of molten gold, there lies a heart.
This heart, clad in brass and silvered splendor, beats not with blood, but with the soft, relentless tick of time. Each tick, a caress upon the ear of eternity.
And in the echoes of this clockwork heart, the stories of tomorrow are written upon the silent pages of the wind.
Consider the clockwork butterfly, whose wings shimmer with the crystalline dust of forgotten stars. It flutters between the strands of fate, weaving patterns known only to the ancients.
Once, it whispered to me secrets of the golden hour, where the world stands still, wrapped in a blanket of amber softness.