In the mechanical dusk, the gears hum their voids, resonating with a symphony unheard. Machines repeat their purpose, programmed, devoid of choice. In this twilight symphony, overture becomes a paradox of the unchosen wills, the conscript cosmos of orchestrated entities.
The mechanical rhythm beats a hollow drum in the chamber of the universe. Winds whisper through cogs and wires, translating what words no longer carry. We ask, we ponder: what symphony propels us forward, when destinies are scripts on silicon parchment?
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