Therein the coils of languid pace, dreams materialize not in bursts, but as gentle hum in the engine array.
The snail moves mechanically across the unseen paths of its constructed cosmos, leaving trails of whispered aspirations.
Countless dials turn, yet the essence remains unchanged—a slow song spirals beneath each revolute layer.
In that intricate dance of cogs, one ponders: Does desire become more potent when subdued to mechanical rhythms, or does it, in essence, loses its profoundness entirely?
The twilight lands where gears and dreams converge to form a fleeting haven of serene yet hollow yearning.