In the great expanse, a lonely cog singsove the stellar fields, gears turning through endless night, perpetually weaving paths teethed by light, echoing in shadows the forgotten melodies of when the universe whispered secrets into the cold embrace of time.
A constellation made of tangled thoughts, splines of pondering wits becomes the guide when hands of brass and whimsy reach across to align the void with intentional chaos. Is it destiny or mechanized fate?
Mysterious arms, imaginary levers spin, dancing ecliptic curves across an ever-anticipative looking glass squeezing memories remembered not within porcelain yet sullied fogs stretched across space like knitted clocks.
Here, an inventor sits alone, imagined gears grinding rustily as thoughts stray across stardust horizons beyond every woodland stroll past millisecond increments. Is this pathway to be eternized?