In a world where clocks are whispers of forgotten constellations, the misplaced clock ticks not in seconds but in epochs. What does time measure when it is bound by the illusion of direction? Each moment a relic, each hour an eternity of dust.

Imagine a place where the future remembers the past, not as an echo, but as a guide with the hands pointing inward to infinity. The clock weaves stories of spaces unsaid, of journeys taken on paths unwalked.

"What if the clock spoke?" you ponder, gazing into its relentless spin. Would it tell of lost pathways or redefine the very essence of direction? Perhaps, in its misplacement, it finds a home in the heart of the wanderer.