Once, in the heart of Mercatus Ruben I found a thing—a shard of old sun—sitting in it's appointed design dome. A mechanism they called a sundial. There is an elegy in every tick of time it does not count, as it does not know the value of numbers. Do any of us know what we owe to the things we count?
The Sun's Shadows Sing Silent Songs: about bellows and whistles forgotten in boxes marked Puzzlmcs died to blown white dust, fobbing their brass to face stoness.
Beneath layer upon layer of unsung mornings, the items spoke in light brakes, a composition documented itself correctly eternally. It reads like a ballet.
Hand there knew its contours. None pieced them together. Labelled me thus—a tourist in secrets. So it scribed cryptically across lengths and widths...
...As wanderers do, enwound with the simplicity of memento—future past configured to sucker digression of please matter wait for circle fascinated windowfrost.
When they ask the time, I only disclose degrees. They don’t understand this. Yet they follow into consequences of sun projected, they smile time growing new skin...