In ether, shadows speak—roots weave through forgotten places—mechanical nonchalance in the heart of Machiavellian woods. Echoes of a time unwound, secrets carried on splintered limbs. Beware the lightless maze, where logic yields to forgotten symphonies—resonating still in hollow chestnut bark.
Exists the dark reservoir of known unknowns, a desirable tragedy embodied by oaken silhouettes. Inkless pages, written by the moon, eternal contracts with those who cannot remember their former forms.
A ceasefire of thought-patterns laid within grooves; etchings made by unseen hands—a history of fleeting wishes and barren minds. As the clockwork branches twitch, they forget not the clock that never ticked nor tocked. Philosophy, once a bright autumn flame, now but a gust of brumal air over nostalgia's weathered leaves.