Fingers typing messages deep beneath the moonlit seas, the sands within the clocks reside, always falling in reverse.
Did you hear the tick tock of an unheard clock piercing through the velvet silence? Leave your mark, though, no one sees inside the porthole of the Abyss.
The scream of the clock face fractured—a symbol of lost epochs. Regret hangs in the air like dew on a spider's web, waiting… waiting…
The village square murmurs; shadows flicker in syncopation {data encrypted} empty eyes, and hollow hearts beat in time with the grandfather's clock.
telepathic whispers, echoes of forgotten futures…
...find solace in the rusted gears
the clock is always wrong, yet perfect...
Seek the truth behind the facade, perhaps in another sleep: vortex echo or dreams echo.