The clock ticks backward in the garden of electric dreams, where shadows dance anachronistically under neon moons. Did we not invent the wheel in a past that never was? Voices echo from corridors of time, rearranging the fabric of what this reality could become or what it ceased to be.
A transatlantic telegram sent from the fogged future, announcing the arrival of pixelated rain on the cobbled streets of past cities.
The mechanical heart beats with the rhythm of forgotten rhythms, memories synthesized and erased by algorithms of a world unseen. The cat meows, or is it the machine's hymn we perceive as feline whispers?