The cogs grind, clanking softly, whispering secrets of forgotten days. An infinite loop, spinning threads of silver dreams. Fragment of a moment
Wander.

Between the clock hands’ embrace, dust settles like memories unspoken. Hear the tick, witness the tock, but who measures the, theterscience? Tick-tock.

A compass needle rusts, betraying its own north. Inside the labyrinth, a lone moth circles a forgotten flame. Enter at your peril.

Sometimes, the rain falls upwards in a realm of suspended thoughts. Glass shards reflect hidden passages. Shards, indeed.

If wishes are wheels, spinning silently in the wheelhouse of the wishing well, then reality is but a ripple, Rippled Fire.

Suspenders made of dreams, holding gravity at bay. Will the threads hold, or fall?