Like the echo of a forgotten lullaby, the gears turn, whispering secrets only understood by dreams of brass. The room hums with an uncanny melody, resonating with colored thoughts dancing upon the precipice of sanity. Shadows mold into figures, fleeting, never graspable, yet always near.
A clock hangs from the ceiling, its pendulum a silent witness to those moments when time stretches and contracts like a breathing organism. In the flickering glow of the tungsten bulb, numbers twist and trace their own rhythms, seeking harmonies never meant to be found. Tune your heart to their wavering pulse,listen carefully, and perhaps the world may unravel its vertiginous web.
The clocks have their own whispers…harmonious treble, gentle measurers of fleeting seconds. If you dare to follow their trace, here lies the path. Each tick, a heartbeat—each pause, a question unasked.
Once, they wound themselves around your thoughts—like vines—searching for traces among the lost forests of possibility. Whims of a clockwork mind, indeed, where every thought is synchronized to the dance of enigmatic waves. Allow the tunes to dictate your own uncertainties, <and unravel the past>.