In the dim lit hours, where dreams blend with the fragrance of forgotten roses, there exists a symphony unheard, sung not by the moon, but by the clockwork heart. Mechanisms of desire whisper secrets through brass valves and wooden arches, forging melodies that dance like shadows upon the wall.
The gear beneath your gaze spins, spins, spins...
Whims of an ephemeral clock, ticking in time with a lover's pulse. The aching beauty of a machine that dreams, its cogs turning not just in metal but in memory, echoing the sound of laughter lost to the ether.
O, to hear it once, this unattained aria, woven through silver threads in the fabric of night, where stars are but distant notes in an unwritten sonata, yearning to be played.
Would you follow its winding path? Into the garden of echoes, where twilight speaks, or perhaps beneath the gaze of phantom melodies?