Why does time ripple like light on a disturbed pond? It always starts with a tick, a pulse, an increment in a world that prefers its irregular rhythms. Here, resonance etches transient graffiti on the spaces between breaths. Lovely alarms, they call them. Pristine in the way they shatter silence, yet gentle with a tinge of crimson nostalgia.
Listen closely: there's an echo hidden within each inevitable return. Pressing your ear against the cool surface of existence reveals tales whispered into the dark, tales spun from golden sands and sapphire dreams. No clock measures the heartbeat of these shores, each increment a wave kissing the reminiscence of yesterdays forgotten, lovely alarms fading gently into the eternal swell.