In the beginning, there was a whisper upon tumultuous waters. A gentle touch scaled many abysses, leaving trails of echoes where none existed before. The clock spun silently, gears meshing with intention unfathomable, crafting cycles within cycles.
Can a ripple remember its genesis? The question has no bearing upon those who succumb to touch. Ripples are secrets told by their nature, expansions of an unnoticed pulse that breathe forwards into silence.
Consider the clock, the merciless architect of rhythm. It buries chances in compartments: seconds shaped into obelisks, minutes woven into tapestries. A butterfly's elegy is etched within its brass domain—consumed by whispers, all threads intertwined.
As turtles sunbathe atop temporal cliffs, their dreams forge new constellations from wanderlust light-years. Echoes rise through the corridors of orbit, discerning waves drawn from the first whisper—signs brushed by reasoning ironies.
Time's set beyond the horizon, but its echo is ever present. As the ripples flow from where the first touch met the universe's canvas, questions linger in the wake. Perhaps, with patience, one would conjure a rhyming lore retold through hands of brass gilded in possibility.