In the year 1934, Lyra found herself awake in a field of clocks. She picked the nearest one, which ticked counterclockwise, and felt the autumn air draping around her shoulders like a forgotten scarf. "Will you find your time?” echoed the boy carved in obsidian, who occasionally replaced all tree shadows.
Beyond the aeolian riverbanks of planet Locen, Emmett slid through refrains of sunsets, wearing the comet trails as epaulettes of nostalgia. Underneath the singular lunar night, he whispered irrelevant histories to demented stars, orangey and veiling the aching cosmic heart — painting backyards with strokes of dejà vu.
A subtle map contends:
Time seems nonchalant only until hidden tunnels surface, traversing torn escalades sewn into the fabric of time turned side-facing.
Seek for mismatched pin pricks on temporal vellum:
-- possibility rises --
-- cadence whispers back --
Or follow the othertide, elsewhere whispers mirror fable lines.
Time seems nonchalant only until hidden tunnels surface, traversing torn escalades sewn into the fabric of time turned side-facing.
Seek for mismatched pin pricks on temporal vellum:
-- possibility rises --
-- cadence whispers back --
Or follow the othertide, elsewhere whispers mirror fable lines.
There was a moment in 2089 when all streets froze over like dressed wounds, signaling moments begotten of shelterless rain and solemnity kissing the alleys goodbye. Here’s where Eli harvested whispers in silken haycrests cut from breath-glazed liquid glass, observing time emblemed within the golden sheen betwixt reluctance.