In a world where clockwork minds drift on the currents of misplaced time, the gears of destiny turn without purpose. Somewhere above the ephemeral clock face, a tinker sings sweet nothings into the void, and whispers to the cogs below.
He dreams of tin soldiers marching to the rhythm of forgotten tides, where the echoes of their steps carve tunnels through the very fabric of reality itself. Each march forward is a backward step into the chronicle of looping destinies.
Beneath the Surface they go, our ephemeral travelers, tethered to dreams that are not their own, yet conjured from the whimsical spindles of a clockwork universe.
And what of the moments suspended between the ticks? Unraveling ever so slowly, like a matchless thread in the warp and weft of the cosmic tapestry. Who holds the needle?
While the world sleeps, the gears turn on, and somewhere, perhaps beyond the horizon of dreams, the answer lies hidden in plain sight.
Discover more at the slumber's edge.