In the labyrinth of mist, where shadows converge and diverge, lies the binary truth of the clockwork oracle. It ticks, it tocks, with no pulse but an unfaltering rhythm that resonates with the whispers of cosmic detachment.
The skies part for no witness; they are mirrors reflecting what is and what is not — a kaleidoscope of smoke and prism. Winds carry the ethereal currents, beyond the grasp of the tangible mind.