The murmur of time echoes in broken constellations, an orbit unwound. Beneath the surface, roots intertwine—gnarled, yet graceful. Do the whispers know, or merely echo, the unspoken?
In stores of forgotten memories, neon vines wrap around the glass bones of yesterday's machines. Pulses syncopate, harmonize, then abruptly sever, a dance of destiny and free will.
Are you the dream, or the one inside awakening?