"Tick-tock," she whispered, "when do dreams end, and when do they begin?" In fragmented whispers, the old clock spoke, it echoed.
Beyond the workings of gears hidden in shadow
Lies a symphony of endless tocks and ephemeral ticks
Minds locked in the dance of chronicle whispers
Voices of yesterday seeking the tomorrow's door
Enter here.
"Second, or eternity?" pondered the digital soul, its numbers blinking defiantly, a question unasked.