In the center lies a disk, cold and unyielding. It rotates, spinning silently, its surface a canvas waiting for imprints.
Words, once vivid and energetic, now lie dormant, stripped of form. They linger in the air, intangible, fading.
The machine hums softly, a monologue of absence, reciting the echoes left by the unsaid. A vacuum of meanings,
an arena of unspoken truths encased in metallic silence. The disk's rotation is constant, invincible,
yet the words remain motionless, locked in a vacuum.
Whispers of the Void and yet,
Echoes of the Unsung await
the release from mechanized confinement.