Whispers of the Mechanic Realm

Once, beneath the endless turn of the eternal dial, a dream spun itself into an anecdote of angles. Each whispering gear of time held narratives untold, shifting under its own mechanical wishes.

In the hall of mirrors where reality forgets its own shape, the brass-plated maelstrom sang. Singers of gears, dancers of wheels, and architects of shadow angles, they caressed the moments with clockwork elegance. Through the breach between seconds, a story leaned and asked for a tongue.

Fragments floated like unwoven thoughts:

• A conversation with a forgotten machine, asking why it hums in solitude.
• The angle of sorrow, dented and rusting beneath the polished floor.
• A clock's dream of becoming a void, so it might finally rest.

The clockwork mind closes upon its own reflections, finding solace in nonsensical loops and the rhythm of haunting rotations.