In the labyrinth of forgotten hours, moments slip between the gears of time, elusive as shadows at dusk. Each tick a memory, winding its way through the corridors of a mind wrapped in velvet whispers. Do these moments remember us, as we etch our existence into the fabric of stars?
Consider the clockwork of your soul, each cog a dream, each spring a hope. They turn relentlessly, forging paths in the ether. What is the purpose of such mechanics? Perhaps to remind us that even in stillness, we are borne upon the tide of the infinite.
The watchmaker of fate stands silent, observing the dance of destiny. Are we players in a grand theatre, or mere echoes of a whispered prophecy? The answers lie hidden in the folds of twilight.
As we ponder the mysteries of existence, let us wander through the moments that make us whole. The clockwork continues, relentless and beautiful, a symphony of the ages.