"Ah, the benches that the kings have crafted, only to have their shadows dance here once more... evermore. Listen well, something stirs! The ancient clockverks still tick-tock, but what do they measure when sands become shrouded in spectral hugs?"
The mists hold no mercy, they scream songs of an undone world; time intertwines like a weaving lunatic, stitching echoes into void rafts that drift in dreams' gateways turned awry. Everything ends at the river's edge — the one's edge, the never was...
"Murmur, little crickets, under the amber suns, while the moonstruck forks watch 'n roll dice over tombstones unread. Banshees will hum lullabies now, won't they turn kites to knives as Carnival clocks chime a shifty round this night?"
The Malady Cogs Turn