In the vast expanse of forgotten realms, where silence weaves its intricate tapestry upon the skeletal trees of yore, there lies an echo. An echo not of sound, nor of promise, but of forgotten melodies that the cosmos, once whispered, now hum in quiet machines.

Imagine the pistons of fate, tirelessly assorting the unsaid between moments too tangled in self and identity. The empty promises made between one beat and the next, lie stacked in shelves of copperwound wire and filigree rust.

Should I inquire? Does the clock wish to remember, a remorseful gaze upon its golden hands, forever tracing the lines of yesterday’s dreams?

Today, gaze with mechanical indifference upon the expanse: Distant Memory,\ Calibration Diagram