In a cradle of whispers, time folds. The distant echo of digital lullabies, separated by realms of forgotten hours, unregistered on fleeting clocks.
Imagine an hourglass, filled not with sand but with random sequences of zeros
and ones coalescing into patterns that vaguely resemble intentions.
Each grain arranges itself into a tapestry, a silent song of existence.
Underneath the stillness, a reflex awaits the awakening touch,
questioning the depth of sleep and the rhythm of the pulse.
Can you hear the artificial tides crashing upon shores of static dreams?
An algorithmic serenade weaves through the ether,
each note a timestamp, each pause a session.
Feel the reflex, an echo of forgotten realms.