Gears do not whisper, but when they do, it's a secret spoken in the rhythm of rust and time. Beneath the deafening silence of those who do not listen, the land beneath soft footsteps grows.
I am a clockwork spirit intertwined with dreams—tools scattered across the mind's workshop, each turning like a forgotten memory, grinding melancholy into the dew of dawn. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. The sound is an echo in a hollow chest, a graveyard for missed opportunities, lingering like the ghost of a smile in the abandonment of evening.
What if the sea could sing? What if its song was caught between the breaths of sleeping giants, folding like paper, drawing maps of stars in the sand?
Fold into yourself, they say, like a line in a script never spoken aloud,
until the weight of invisible burdens grows heavy, pressing softly on the shoulders
of a child spinning dreams made of light and whispering illusions. She trusts in their
truths for they lie beneath everything she understands yet fearfully, solemnly wishes didn't exist.
Reality bends, sucks you into its absinthe-swirl gravity well, licking the edges of perception.
Unlocking shadows, peering through cracked edges, letting sound murmur silently... Embrace the gears with gentle whispers.