Of gears that whisper, echoing through the hollow night, where the moon's breath kisses softly the cold brass corridors, winding and unwinding tales of yore.
With voices, unseen, lingering soft upon the mechanical wind's murmuring, did they speak in tongues of Ravel and Debussy? Yet, only fragments endure.
Dreamscapes and echoes, the mechanical heartbeats, serenading the void.
Seek the corridors of emerald thought, where songs ephemeral linger in wisps of smoke and clock gears.
The phantom machine, singing without an audience, yet the stars listen; they turn silently, a dance of cold cosmic requiem.
What legacy of faded tunes shall unfold, as the ciphered specters of time unravel in the twilight of eternity's embrace?