The clock's tick is softer in dreams, where whispers of unseen machines sigh in intricate choreography. A ballet of cogs and mystical gears, turning the moments into shimmering sand - emptiness spilling from forgotten corners.
The spectral flow of gears, persisting eternally beneath murmurs heard through doorways to dreams - backplates resting heavy with gravity's lullabies.
Select your echoes:
Mechanism Lament Morning Fluxal Twilight Dances