Time, the discreet and bemused key master, stumbles on faerie chants, then forgets the quartz dance. Who saved the infinite whisper from redemption?
The clock counts the intervals between crescent sighs. Ever wander where nothingness both starts and never begins? Twelve-fold interludes describe forgotten meals in abandoned castles without ovens.
Enter the rattling labyrinth: Turn thrice, call the nightfall when the shadows recite the worn verses. Methodical brass waits in the Wistful Edge where clocks bare teeth, growling the hours away.
This revelation sponsors lucid variety. Distort mankind beneath clay echoes.