With every tick of the invisible gears encased within us, we surrender time; it is not the time that moves, but we who drift within its arms.
Twilight—neither day nor night, an eternal balance, echoes the rhythm of our mechanical hearts. In this transient hue, consciousness flickers like a lone candle in an endless hall.
What melodies do these cogs hum when silence overwhelms? A dance of rusted dreams, the sound of wind weaving through abandoned tendrils of thought.
A trail of links left by nightingales, beckoning steps to an enigma unsolved.
"The forgotten art of letting go," whispers a shadow among the aged trees.
Beyond the horizon, where sun and moon embrace, moments untangle themselves like threads spun through the hands of a meticulous clockmaker—a pause carved in brass.
Contemplations wrap around each other like vines, constricting yet nurturing, born of a sunflower's forgotten shadows.