The clock's hands waver, caught between seconds like indecision captured in time's grasp. They dance, reflections of a fleeting moment suspended just above the immutable silence, which eavesdrops upon those hours that are neither night nor dawn.
In the cold veneer of the midnight reflection, thoughts shimmer in amber. A message from yesteryears whispers, delicate tones threading through the tapestry of night. Voices worn smooth through a sea of consciousness, call but their language is old and somehow familiar.
It is here the caretaker muses:
"The hour drifts not forward, but inward."
Kindle lamps flicker without flame in the midst of shadow, guiding pathways diverging into the arcane introspect of your dwelling soul. Patterns etched into ether dance before closed eyes; a sarcastic trust bestowed on a misremembered future. Do you hear the hum? the resonance deaf to waking life clings like fog.
{{Patterns breathe, knowingly, underneath layers of starlit gaze.}}