silence creeps yet the clockwatches, no unspooled thread left, just the swing of pendulums hypnotic, thrilling in its cyclical sanity. outside, whispers haunt the eaves.
hovering thoughts, butterfly net of intuition scatters a million delicate truths in a morning dew, too fragile to grasp but far too loud to ignore.
a breath too late and the room shifts, worldly stages collapse into playful abysses, electric surprise at every corner. rest now, burst into wildness, unbridled bosun's whistle that parts the grey velvet waves.
artful mechanics of the absurd, a jester's perfect plunge into truths half-known, a thousand stars washed in morning's quiet rebellion.