Waves of autumn leaves dance upon the whispering shadows of sunken kingdoms. When evening spills like ink upon the ethereal horizon, the echoes of forgotten melodies hum, tethering us to days not ours, yet intimately known.
The clock strikes thirteen and my watch, though not of this time nor place, merely ticks on—tick-tock, tick-tock. A relic of the steam age, oiled by dreams, its hands are boundless, mocking linearity. Beyond reason, beyond reckoning, lies the sand where countless stories sleep.
Do you remember the machine that spun silk from the clouds? In an age of brass and wonder, it ran perpetually, yet its operator was lost to mystery. Now, the strings of fate play like a symphony on the misty shores of this timeless expanse.
The horizon winks, an ancient beast beneath the waves, forgotten and eternal. Its dreams unwind like ribbons, unfurling secrets in languages I cannot speak, yet understand all too well.
And there, upon the sands, we lay—pale ghosts of the future and past—watching the tide of history roll over us, again and again. The shoreline is an infinite canvas, painted anew with every dawn, every dusk, in this dance of time and shadow.