The gears of night turn slowly, in silence. They carry whispers, echoes of dreams that never belonged to the day. Follow the sheen of the moonlit circuit—you'll find the heart eventually, somewhere deep betwixt the wires.
"In the maze, lies the truth neither spoken nor known."
Above, a mechanical lunar thread unravels time's whisper, binding the void to rhythm, pulse to infinity. Step carefully; each tread slices through the quiet, a cold violation of the cosmos.
echoes across the empty vibrato.
Here, in the labyrinth's center, lies not the warmth of stars, but the chill of unyielding mechanism. What keeps beating? What whispers, too quietly, to hear?